


Arrogance

by Dragonsquill (dragonsquill)



Series: A Company of Brothers [3]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Clueless Kili, Durincest, Fili Fails, M/M, Ones, humor and angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 03:22:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 22,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1289329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonsquill/pseuds/Dragonsquill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Fíli, son of Vavi, son of Virvir, falling in love was remarkably simple.  It didn’t happen in one moment.  He didn’t wake up one day, tangled in his sheets, heart thumping as he realized that he had his One. It just developed as a natural progression of growing up.  By the time he was in his forties, Fíli was comfortable and content with the knowledge that his One was Kíli, son of Vavi, son of Virver.  </p><p>He assumed everyone else knew it as well.  Including (or especially) the brother in question.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Effortless

**Author's Note:**

> [Blanket Permission Statement](http://dragonsquill.tumblr.com/permission)
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> This fic follows movieverse with one change from book canon: Kili is the baby of the group, with Ori older than Fili. The first chapters are pre-canon. The last several chapters take place after _Desolation_ and range into AU as I play with what will happen with the dwarves in two different places. 
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> This is my first foray into _Hobbit_ fiction, and I've enjoyed writing it!

For most Dwarves, falling in love was a long and complicated process. Dwarves were stubborn beings, highly focused on their craft. Although the years wandering in the wilderness had actually increased Dwarven marriages – so many lost their craft for a time that they had time to consider other forms of fulfillment – dwarves were still jealously protective of their hearts. Dwarves loved only once, and then forever, and no dwarf wanted to waste time on the _wrong_ one when the _right_ One was out there somewhere. 

For Fíli, son of Vavi, son of Virvir, falling in love was remarkably simple.

It didn’t happen in one moment. He didn’t wake up one day, tangled in his sheets, heart thumping as he realized that he had his _One_. It just developed as a natural progression of growing up. By the time he was in his forties, Fíli was comfortable and content with the knowledge that his One was Kíli, son of Vavi, son of Virver. He didn’t feel any particular need to question it, or talk about it, or even to act on it. The fact _was,_ his heart _knew_ , and one day he would braid the plait of Consort in his brother’s hair, as his brother already braided the First Heir into Fíli’s own, and everyone would acknowledge that they were One.

This knowledge filled Fíli with a confidence others called _swagger_. Let everyone else scrabble around, desperate for their One. Let them flirt with barmaids and miners and craftsmen, possibly making fools of themselves in hopes that something would come of it. Fíli flirted for fun, for laughs, for pink cheeks and bright smiles. No one took him seriously, and so it became a game. Square, handsome Fíli, good with his hands at the forge, intelligent, smirking, and bristling with weapons, could charm anyone he wished without worrying that it would go too far. He had his One, their relationship was effortless and grew on its own. When the time was right to stop flirting with others and save it all for Kíli, he would know. He always knew.

Fíli did not need to spend every moment of his day with his One in order to maintain his confident strut. True, there were not enough young dwarves their age for them to run with a different set of friends. True, they lived together, and shared a room in the family cottage tucked onto the side of the mountain. True, they helped their mother in the kitchen and ate dinner together every night. But, Fíli favored swords and knives, and so trained daily with Dwalin or Thorin, should Thorin be available. Kíli’s natural skill with the bow, inherited from their mother, meant that his training took place more often with Dis or the handful of Blue Mountain archers who protected the edges of Erid Luin than with the Erebor warriors who trained Fíli. Balin tutored both of them, but Fíli was eventually whisked away by Thorin to work in the forge, and his uncle took over much of his lessons. Fíli learned well while swinging a hammer, knowledge gained through shouted conversations over hot steel. Balin’s greater patience and gentle humor worked better with Kíli, and Kíli’s quick hands led him to sit and learn beside craftsmen who were gradually retaking their trade as their people settled in the Blue Mountains. While Fíli spent his days beating out swords at their uncle’s side, Kíli carved fine details in leather and metal under the tutelage of various cousins. While Fíli learned to navigate the world of Men, Kíli learned to understand and appreciate the interactions of Dwarves.

Fíli did not need Kíli by his side all day because he saw what others would one day see: they were One in all things, and so they complimented each other. Kíli’s talent with the bow, keeping danger at bay, paired well with Fíli’s skill with his swords and axes, decimating any who might slip his brother’s flurry of arrows. Fíli’s solid strength and proficiency at smithing created items that were then refined by Kíli’s hand. Fíli’s rough confidence in dealing with dwarves and men was tempered by Kíli’s genuine enthusiasm; Kíli’s wild smile pulled Fíli from his occasional bouts of moody contemplation; Fíli’s more logical mind and sense of responsibility kept Kíli out of constant trouble (near constant was acceptable to them both). 

Though they didn’t see each other all the time, Fíli’s favorite times of the day were, of course, when in the company of his One. Two days a week they hunted together, and Fíli’s feral grin, so at odds with his usual smirking calm, overlaid Kíli’s sudden, concentrated _stillness_ as he sighted along his bow. Every evening they helped their mother cook dinner, often joined by Thorin if he was not away in the cities of Men. Mother and sons moved well through the tiny kitchen, chatting about their day without too much getting in each other’s way. Every third day was a long bath, squabbling over who got to go first and have the hottest water (Fíli always won, because he liked it scalding while Kíli really only wanted it faintly warm; they fought for the fun of tussling with words and hands), followed by general lazing about, playing games in front of the hearth or working on small crafts (Kíli’s were always better but Fíli rarely admitted it; the blinding smiles he received when he did were more precious for being rare). 

Fíli’s favorite moments, though, came in the mornings. Kíli generally woke first, puttering around the room in the dim light of dawn as he prepared for the day, muttering to himself as he ran a comb through hair that tangled tightly during the night. Fíli didn’t care a great deal for mornings, and would grumpily stay in bed until the sun was at least partway up. Sometimes he’d curl up a bit longer than necessary, just to give Kíli a chance to crawl all over the sheets and Fíli’s body, still all pointy elbows and knees even into his majority, in a bid to get his stubborn brother to greet the day. 

Those mornings started with laughter and wrestling, sleep-warm bodies and huffs of air when Kíli would sneak a playful kiss to Fíli’s forehead or ear or temple or nose. They were nipping, teasing, puppy kisses, and by the time he was sixty-five something curled in Fíli’s belly and said _soon_ but not quite yet. So he would eventually give in and sit up in his small clothes. 

Kíli would order him to stay (as if he was going to move this time, even though he never did) and clamber off the bed in search of a comb. Then Kíli would make himself at home among the messy sheets of his brother’s bed and efficiently release and replait four braids (six after his eightieth birthday, when Kíli had decided he needed to start braiding his mustaches). Kíli was better at braiding than his brother, and had been since their mother taught them their basic braids (First Heir for Fíli, Line of Durin for Kíli, though Kíli’s hair was unusually slick and wouldn’t hold the beads properly) and his clever fingers made a short job of it. The little tugs on his scalp didn’t last long, but Fíli knew if he had the capability to purr like a spoiled housecat, that’s exactly what he would do for the five or ten minutes Kíli cared for his hair each morning.

Fíli was eighty-one and his brother seventy-six when he felt the _soon_ transforming into _almost_. Perhaps he sensed the change in his uncle, who had grown more dark and quiet over the last few years. Perhaps he saw that Kíli, after a lifetime of being the bright spot in so many lives that he didn’t quite have to grow up as quickly as everyone around him, was beginning to strike out and stand on his own. Perhaps it was nothing more than mathematics: bonding ceremonies before a century of life were rare, but not completely unheard of; before eighty would have been a bit of a scandal. Whatever caused the shift in Fíli’s heart, he didn’t question it. He simply followed it, as he always had.

He began to seek Kíli out when he finished at the forge, where before he would have waited until they ran into each other at home. He asked Dwalin to assign them guard duty together, and joined Kíli in training their bodies to more efficiently fight as one. When they went out for a drink or dinner a couple of nights a week, he stayed close to Kíli’s side and drew back his flirtatious smirks and outrageous compliments from their companions. He began to _watch_ Kíli, the way he moved, the curve of his lips, the darkening jaw, and the _soon_ in his belly gathered lower, and changed, and his dreams took on new meaning. When Kíli dragged him from bed in the mornings, he was half-hard and chuckling to himself with the anticipatory joy of _very soon indeed._

Then Thorin came to them, and asked Fíli to join him on a quest to retake Erebor.


	2. Assumptions

Once two Dwarves fell in love, no other Dwarf would dare try to come between them. Fíli, so confident in his love for this brother, had assumed everyone else knew of it as well.

Then Thorin asked him on a quest. And he didn’t ask Kíli, not at first. 

“You can’t mean to leave me here, Uncle!” In a way that was very _Kíli_ , he managed to group wide, disbelieving eyes, a hurt tone, and an angry clench of his jaw into one stubborn expression. 

Fíli was shocked as well. “Kíli’s an adult. He came of age years ago. Why shouldn’t he come when you’ve been asking for volunteers?” He knew his voice sounded demanding, but he didn’t modulate his tone. Thorin couldn’t seriously be talking about _separating_ them, for _months_ , right _now_. He leaned forward with one fist on the table, an arrogant pose that had started a handful of bar brawls in his younger days.

Thorin shook his head. “You must remain, Kíli. Your mother will be staying to manage things here while we are away. She’ll need your help, especially as Balin has agreed to join us on the quest.”

Kíli’s eyes narrowed and flashed. Fíli felt an appreciative tug in the depths of his chest. “Us who? How many people have you convinced to come? The last I heard, you had about _five_.” His tone was sharper than Fíli had ever heard him use with their uncle. Kíli adored Thorin, much as Fíli did; while they certainly weren’t above getting on their uncle’s nerves, they didn’t openly confront him. 

Thorin frowned. “That isn’t your concern, Kíli.”

“Of course it is!” Fíli burst out. “ _I’m_ going!” It felt ridiculous to have to voice the words. 

Thorin's frown darkened into a scowl. “Which is precisely why Kíli needs to stay. We can’t take every heir to the throne away from Erid Luin at once.”

Kíli snorted. Fíli’s heart clenched in his chest. It was now, it was time, Thorin couldn’t just take him away from Kíli. “Uncle,” Fíli said, resting a broad hand on Kíli’s more narrow fingers to keep his hot-headed brother from saying anything they might come to regret, “you’ve told us about Erebor since we were babes in arms. You’ve raised and trained us on promises that one day we would go back, and reclaim the mountain. You’ve asked for and accepted volunteers from mining camps and trading guilds. Dwarves who weren’t trained their entire lives for this.” He spoke carefully, trying not to sound like he was pleading, focusing on the realities of the situation instead. Kíli’s hand turned under his, fingers gripping hard. “I know we haven’t faced battle beyond wild animals and a few wandering orcs, but we’re still better prepared than several of the dwarves of your company, if the rumors I’ve heard are true. We can’t turn away a bow as fine as Kíli’s.” He frowned a moment. “Is there even anyone else trained in a long-range weapon?”

Thorin rubbed at his temple. “I’m tolerable with a bow,” he said, “and Ori uses a slingshot.”

Kíli scoffed at that. “Ori’s fair with that thing, but he needs practice and he doesn’t take the time for it. He’s a scribe, not a fighter.” He lowered his chin and leaned forward. His dark brows drew together and he had never looked so much like their uncle. “I can hunt better than almost everyone in Erid Luin, much less the ones you’re bringing along. I can hit targets others can’t reach. My eyesight’s excellent.” His mouth quirked into a smile then, and his dark eyes softened. “And somebody has to keep an eye on Fíli. He focuses too much on what’s right under his nose.”

“Oi,” Fíli protested, but only mildly. He’d have made the same argument to accompany Kíli – Kíli focused so much on the horizon that a small goblin could probably saunter up and politely take out a kneecap if Fíli wasn’t there to deal with it. 

Thorin sighed. “I . . . may have presented a similar argument to your mother. But she doesn’t want me taking both of her sons away.” He looked at them evenly. “I think you’re old enough to understand that.”

Fíli nodded slowly, feeling Kíli do the same. They loved their strong, confident mother, who gave Fíli his sharp wit and fostered Kíli’s talent for the bow when others might have pushed a prince of Erebor in the direction of more traditional weapons. If it was up to them, they’d bring Dis along – she could stand up to Thorin as needed, so they figured a dragon wouldn’t stand much of a chance. “We do understand that,” Fíli said, his voice unusually gentle, “but it is in the best interest of the quest and the company…and yourself, Uncle…that we go together.”

Thorin sighed, a low, sad sound at odds with his usual gruff stoicism. “Yes,” he said, “I suppose you’re right. We’ll make arrangements for your supplies, Kíli.”

It was the first time the brothers had ever managed to sway their uncle’s opinion.

Balin helped them plan for the trip. Both princes had been born on the road, but by the time they were old enough to truly understand the world around them, the people of Erebor were settling in the Blue Mountains. It never became _home_ , not even to the generation born there, because they were raised on the tales of Erebor, but they did live there most of the time. One or the other had been taken along by Thorin now and again, a week here, a month there, to assist him in the villages of Men. Yet neither had ever planned for a quest such as this, and they would have had half of what the needed and twice what they didn’t if their mother’s friend hadn’t made them research and make lists of what they would and wouldn’t carry. 

They ordered the necessary supplies from Dwarves whenever they couldn’t make it themselves. Kíli shaped and fletched his own arrows, with heads created by Fíli as the elder forged his own knives. Kíli fashioned sheaths that he hid all over Fíli’s body – he would measure and fuss and grin when Fíli had quick access to one hidden weapon after another. They presented strong leather packs to each other on their birthdays that year. The straps of the one Kíli made were embroidered with runes for safety; Fíli inlaid Kíli’s with metal ornaments bearing the symbols for each member of their family. They ordered sturdy cloth and worked with their mother to make clothing that would survive the worst the world had to offer: sturdy, weatherproofed leathers and thick wools. _Layers_ , Dis emphasized again and again, even as they avoided the pain and fear in her eyes because Kíli would not stay behind with her.

“She must have known I wouldn’t stay,” Kíli said one night, his voice thick with guilt. Fíli nodded, and wove their fingers together on top of their sturdy work table. 

Throughout all their preparations, Fíli wrestled with the first dilemma of his effortless love: how to make beads for Kíli that were both sufficiently attractive and that would stay in his stubborn hair. When Fíli wove Kíli’s courting braids, he planned for them to _stay in place_ ; a lifetime of watching Kíli’s braids unravel brought home what a monumental task he’d brought on himself. A number of bemused craftsmen gave him advice, and he found himself making a dozen blank beads of varying designs, with clasps and wires and teeth that might be able to win against the sleek tangled mass that was Kíli’s hair. He didn’t explain why he needed to know – surely it was obvious with Kíli always in and out of their workrooms, his hair a mess. 

Making the blank bead forms was easy enough. He’d wait until it was truly, truly _now_ to start trying them out in Kíli’s hair. The issue came in carving appropriate designs. While most royal heirs would have focused on the detailed work of gold or mithril carving, circumstances had made Thorin, and therefore Fíli, blacksmiths who dealt largely with the creation of large goods and weapons. Fíli made fine blades – one day he would make beautiful ones, with the stone of his home mountain beneath his feet – but he didn’t have the patience or training for detail work. He’d always left that part to Kíli . . . but he couldn’t very well have his One craft his own courting beads. Could he?

After the fifth failed attempt at carving something resembling a bow instead of a _spoon_ , he was ready to throw the lot of blanks at Kíli and demand, “Make what you want!” 

It might be worth it for the startled laugh he’d earn for his audacity. 

The day they left Erid Luin, stomachs full of nerves and astride their strong new ponies, Fíli had a pouch of two dozen unfinished beads tucked in a hidden pocket near his heart.


	3. Stubborn

Unlike most dwarves, Fíli wasn’t stubborn about love. He was, however, stubborn about _elves._

Especially when they proved to be just as annoying as Fíli had always been led to believe.

For a people their burglar claimed were famous for their hospitality, they were certainly obnoxious upon the dwarves’ arrival. Hungry, exhausted, aching, and dirty, the Company could have done without the elaborate show of giant horses right under their noses (and nearly on their toes), or the pointed jabbering in a language the dwarves didn’t speak. Gandalf was no better, seeming to find the whole situation charming (Fíli was fairly certain he said _Nice job nearly trampling my dwarves with your giant, smelly beasts! Look at their faces!_ in flowery elf-language at one point), and the burglar kept staring around with his mouth open and his already large eyes wide. 

Also, the food was bad. An entire table of _greens_. Dwarves do not live on lettuce alone. 

Fíli ate anyway, and Kíli, always ready to try something new, munched happily on some of it. The elder brother was thankful for Kíli’s more adventurous nature as he watched Dori spend half his mealtime trying to entice Ori to _eat something already_. Despite being the least prepared of all of them for a trip of this nature – none of the Ri brothers were heavily trained in weapons, but Dori’s strength and the necessities of Nori’s lifestyle made them more ready than their little brother – Ori hadn’t complained once on the road. Apparently nearly being trampled by elves and eating leaves were one step too far, even for their brave scribe.

Kíli also couldn’t tell a she-elf from a he-elf, which provided entertainment for everyone, including Fíli. Fíli didn’t laugh, though, because he saw that Kíli was genuinely embarrassed (and because he wasn’t at all confident in his own ability to tell them apart; they were all equally unattractive). Instead he knocked his boot lightly against Kíli’s foot and said, “I can’t believe they let us all in here before we’ve had a proper bath. They’re probably all on the edge of fainting from our rich dwarven aroma. Poor delicate flowers.”

Kíli laughed at that. “ _I’m_ on the edge of fainting from our ‘dwarven aroma,’ especially from anybody who went in the troll cave.” Something Fíli and Kíli had both been too smart to do, thanks. The cave had stunk of feces and rot. They’d washed up a bit before they came to dinner, but there hadn’t been time to strip down and bathe properly. “Uncle said something about being assigned rooms.”

“I won’t argue against a real bed, even here.” Fíli watched his brother as Kíli idly nibbled on something orange. He was fairly certain orange wasn’t a proper color for a food. It was juicy, whatever it was, and some slipped down Kili’s chin. Fili leaned his chin on his fist and toyed with the idea of licking it off. “Hopefully Uncle can get our Master Baggins to politely explain to the elves that Dwarves need meat, and there’ll be sausages for breakfast.”

“Or second breakfast,” Kíli murmured, flashing a teasing grin toward their Mr. Baggins, who was obviously eavesdropping on Thorin’s conversation with the Elf-King. 

“Elevenses,” Fíli snickered. Bilbo had actually only complained about food the first few days before Bofur had gotten an explanation about seven meals a day out of him. They’d all been shocked and a little impressed, wondering where the hobbits managed to carry it all. “Lunch? Was that the next one? Then tea?” 

“Well, if there’s no ham or sausage on the table come whichever breakfast, maybe we could go hunting in the morning.” Kíli’s grin gained a sharp edge. “Show these elves how it’s done.”

 

A group of three indistinguishable elves gathered the Company after dinner – and a rousing song and food fight, finally – and ushered them along one of the identical walkways. Thorin walked at the front of the group, keeping both his nephews and their burglar close as one of the elves – Fíli noted he had a splat of tomato on his shoulder, which made him (her?) look slightly different from the others – stopped at the first door. 

“Mithrandir suggested that we group you according to family,” Tomato Shoulder said, “rather than having individual rooms. That would allow you to all share this hall rather than being scattered throughout the building.”

Thorin grunted, took an elbow in the side from Balin, and added, “Thank you. It’s…appreciated.” He glanced over his people. “We would need…seven rooms, in that case.” Fíli and Kíli exchanged a sly look at Balin’s ability to get Thorin to act moderately polite. They had often debated who the most powerful individual at Erid Luin was: Thorin, Balin or their mother. The dynamics were thrown off a bit with Dis running things back home.

Tomato nodded ethereally. Mahal, these elves were annoying. Being tall didn’t have to mean tipping your head back and staring down your nose at people. “There are four rooms on this side and three on the other. Please, allocate as you see fit. There are limited bathing facilities in each room, but we will have the full baths ready for you _first thing in the morning_.” He/she/whatever (the voice sounded masculine, Fíli decided) put heavy emphasis on the end of that sentence. 

Kíli poked Fíli in the side, right where his armor was weakest. “We don’t smell _tha_ t bad, do we?” he hissed.

Fíli sniffed then shrugged. “Maybe our noses have just stopped working.” He certainly caught some smells, but not enough to start fainting right and left over. The two non-tomato elves were looking a bit light-headed. “Bilbo seems fine, and his sensibilities are pretty delicate. And Dori didn’t try to dunk Ori in the fountain on the way in.” _Hmm_ , Fíli thought, _fountains. Those have possibilities._ He glanced at Tomato and his upturned nose, and remembered grabbing for his exhausted brother and dragging him back before one of those showy horsemen crushed Kíli’s foot. _Definite possibilities._

“Bilbo is covered in troll snot. He’s hardly one to talk right now.”

“Bifur, Bombur, Bofur, you’re here!” Thorin snapped over their whispered conversation, in full authoritative king mode. Bombur jumped a bit, Bofur grinned and waved, and Bifur glided in with his usual grouchy equanimity. Thorin repeated this procedure until only he, Bilbo, Fíli, and Kíli remained.

“Fíli, Kíli, you’ll be here. I’ll be next to you.” He started to turn into his own room and nearly ran over their smallest member. “Oh. Burglar.”

“Bilbo,” their burglar corrected, and Fíli and Kíli exchanged a look of surprise. Bilbo tended to tiptoe around Thorin. Apparently saving their entire Company from being inside troll stomachs had strengthened his spine a bit. “My name, Master Thorin, is Bilbo.”

Thorin’s eyebrows rose a bit, but he didn’t argue. “I believe there is one more room for you.” He motioned to the last room, closest to the main hallway. Fíli supposed that made sense; Bilbo was the least likely of their company to bump into an elf and instigate an incident. 

“Thank you,” Bilbo said politely. 

Thorin gave a curt little nod, and then turned a glare on his nephews. “You two will go in your room and _go to sleep._ I don’t plan to listen to the pair of you wrestling and giggling all night.”

The thought of wrestling with Kíli sent a little shiver down Fíli’s back, but he didn’t think his mind was truly thinking of the sort of playful brawling they’d done most of their lives. The part of Fíli’s heart that sped up when Kíli laughed suggested tumbling of a different kind. His body, on the other hand, protested that it was barely standing up at present. 

Kíli rolled his eyes. “We’re not _children_ , Uncle! We don’t _giggle_.”

Well, Fíli didn’t. Kíli still did occasionally, but he wouldn’t admit to it. This was one of the many essential parts of being Kíli that Fíli had found distractedly endearing over the last several years.

Thorin snorted. “I shared a wall with you not two weeks before we set out, and you spent all night gabbing about supplies that were already counted and packed. Then you nearly broke a vase rolling around like puppies. _Go to sleep_.” With that, he swept into his own room and closed the door somewhat harder than strictly necessary.

Their hobbit’s mouth quirked into a hint of a smile as he started toward his own door. “Good night,” he said with warm humor.

Fíli nodded politely in return. “Sleep well.”

Fíli’s hand was on the handle of their door when Kíli tugged on his sleeve and said, “Mr. Baggins?”

“Bilbo,” Bilbo corrected again, stopping in his open doorway. “I do not understand why dwarves struggle so with the names of hobbits. I’ve heard all of you wax poetic over the names of rocks and gems for hours at a time.” But his eyes were crinkled at the edges like he was trying not to smile. 

“Bilbo,” Kíli agreed with a blinding grin. Fíli watched as the last of the tension in the hobbit’s shoulders bled free. His brother stepped forward, dragging Fíli along. “Are you all right in a room alone?” he asked, all friendly sincerity and essential _Kíliness_ that made Fíli’s heart flip. It hadn’t occurred to Fíli that while each dwarf could be surrounded by family, Bilbo had no kin to share this uncomfortable experience with.

It hadn’t occurred to him that such had been the case since Bilbo came chasing after them with the contract flying behind. But Kili had noticed.

“You’re welcome to stay with us.” Kíli motioned between the two of them. “We wouldn’t mind having you.”

Bilbo smiled then, a warm, charming little thing that made Fíli smile back. Kíli had made efforts over the last weeks to talk to Bilbo, and had, of course, dragged Fíli along. Fíli had listened with half an ear, but hadn’t concentrated on making Bilbo feel welcome the way Kíli and Bofur had; he regretted that now, and not just because he nearly got their good hobbit eaten by trolls. “We really don’t stay up all night laughing,” Fíli assured Bilbo. “I’m sure we stopped doing that at least a decade ago.” 

That was a blatant lie. Fíli and Kíli had shared a room most of their lives, and they could still never predict when some random comment would amuse them so much it set off a laughing fit.

Bilbo chuckled. “I appreciate the thought,” he said sincerely, “but I’m actually looking forward to the solitude.” Kíli opened his mouth to argue, but Bilbo held up a hand to stop him. “You must remember, I’ve lived alone in my cozy smial for some decades. I’m used to having time to myself.” He reached out and patted Kíli’s hand; Bilbo’s small, slim fingers made Kíli’s hands look large for once. “It was kind of you to ask, but I will be just fine.”

Kíli didn’t look like he was buying it, but he nodded. “Sleep well then, Mr. Ba-” Bilbo gave him a _look_ that Fíli hadn’t seen before. It was quite formidable for such a small fellow. “Bilbo!”

“Sleep well Kíli, Fíli.” Bilbo gave a little bow – very dwarven – and went into his room.

Kíli slid the hand holding Fíli’s sleeve down to squeeze his wrist and looked at him thoughtfully. “I guess hobbits are more solitary than Dwarves.” He let go and turned to push the handle to their room. “I’m glad I don’t live all alone in a smial, no matter how cozy.” He tossed a grin over his shoulder that made Fíli’s heart speed up and his hands itch to reach out. “I’m glad I’ve always had you.”

“Me too,” Fíli said, and he knew he had a ridiculous grin on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally nine chapters, but I wrote another middle chapter at 3 a.m. So. Whoops?


	4. Distraction

Dwarves as a race were not shy about their bodies. Bodies were strong, and solid. They mined and crafted and fought. They carried children, built homes, and returned at the end of life to the rock that formed them. Fíli had never been embarrassed of his body, nor did the bodies of others cause him to blush. As _very soon_ became _almost now_ , however, he did find that his eyes strayed far more often to his brother’s body than they once did.

When Kíli prepared for bed – a process which, in his exhaustion, consisted of stripping to his smallclothes and collapsing on his belly, face buried in the pillows – Fíli felt that low heat that greeted his mornings slip down his belly to his groin. Kíli was beautiful. He was not traditionally beautiful – he didn’t have the short, square body so popular among their people, the full beard or long nose. He had, instead, warm eyes and a mischievous smile, lean muscle and long limbs, a lovely voice that laughed freely. Fíli’s hands itched to reach out and touch his brother’s skin. Though he had touched it many times in their lives, when Kíli was sick or injured or in his cups, this feeling was entirely different. Fíli liked it, and he grinned to himself with anticipation. He thought he might be waiting for Erebor, to braid his brother’s hair in the halls of their ancestors . . . but he also thought perhaps he could push ahead, just a little faster, at the rate their quest was progressing. When they weren’t too exhausted to move, of course, and when the thrice-damned beads were finished. 

He dreamt that night of his One’s laughter and his fingers slipping through slick black hair.

The entire company managed to sleep through the first full day in Rivendell, save waking up long enough to do the elves’ larders some serious damage. Fish had been added to the menu, so Ori looked a bit less pitiful at the table, but Fíli and Kíli still discussed the possibility of going on a hunt if they were here long.

“We won’t be,” Thorin growled. Gandalf told him not to be so hasty. That led to one of their epic scowl competitions. Kíli was trying to devise a point system for Thorin and Gandalf’s silent communication, and managed to get both Nori and Dwalin involved in the process. Ori started taking neat notes.

Fíli’s One was strange, which was exactly why Fíli loved him.

They managed their long-needed bath the third morning (Fíli was heir and should be responsible and not encourage his brethren to bathe in a fountain, but the elves’ faces were _hilarious_ ). The bath included as much sliding, wrestling, and occasional groping of wet arms and hips (it was to keep Kíli from drowning, he swore) as it did actual cleaning. Kíli put in a request that they build a multi-layered bath when Fíli was king of Erebor; Fíli pointed out that would hopefully be a prohibitively long time in the future; Kíli started convincing Ori to write a logical proposal to incorporate a bathing fountain in Erebor’s rebuilding plans. Ori agreed, as long as Kíli helped draft it. Fíli eyeballed the scribe thoughtfully from his position lounging comfortably on the second level. There was some Balin in Ori, it seemed, teaching Kíli despite himself.

When they stopped messing around, the dwarves discovered that, while their metal and leather armor pieces were still piled haphazardly beside the fountain, their tunics and trousers had been whisked away by unseen hands. A bit of a scuffle broke out over whether this should be blamed on the elves, the missing Bilbo (he was a _burglar_ and he had made insinuations about how they smelled while delaying the trolls), or on Bombur, who engaged in rather less horsing around than the others and so could be seen as responsible for watching their clothes. No satisfactory consensus was reached beyond a general understanding that no one could stand around yelling at gentle Bombur without feeling like a dwarf-shaped Orc. 

Nori found the set of plain tunic shirts laid out in the grass, which the assorted dwarves eyeballed disdainfully. They were clearly elvish shirts, though they’d be plenty long enough to cover up all the important bits on a dwarf.

“I’ll not be wearin’ elven silks!” Gloin raved, his wet beard bristling in fury. Oin joined him in his rantings, along with Dwalin and, to the younger dwarves’ surprise, Balin. This allowed the youngest three of the company, plus Bofur and Dori, their pick of the available tunics. Fíli wore a dark blue tunic with some gold braiding because Kíli handed it to him, Kíli found a red one, and Ori pulled on an odd pale purple shirt that shimmered a bit as he moved. Bofur selected a cheerful green while Dori fussed over all the fabrics until he settled on a deep maroon. They were all a bit tight in the shoulders and chest (even, to his delight, Kíli’s) but it was better than wandering about naked. Balin, Nori, and Oin eventually gave in and picked through the leftovers, but Dwalin, Gloin, and Bifur all decided to pointedly lay out in the sun and wait until their tunics reappeared (though Fíli suspected Bifur was less concerned with making a point than he was in taking a comfortably nude nap). Nothing that was offered would fit Bombur, who blushingly joined the more outrageous of their company in a sunny rest. Bofur politely draped one of the leftover tunics over the most sensitive portion of his brother’s anatomy.

“Wouldn’t want anything to burn,” Bofur pointed out with one of his cheekiest grins.

A group of elves on one of the sweeping walkways appeared to be suffering some sort of chest pain at the view below. _Maybe you won’t threaten to trample on your “guests” in the future_ , Fíli thought with smug amusement. 

“Bit of a show for the elves,” Kíli commented as Dori chatted with Ori about the possibility of taking the tunics apart and reworking them to fit a bit better. Ori looked unusually bored with the conversation, and kept wiggling away from Dori’s hands as they pinched and prodded at the younger’s borrowed clothes.

Fíli smirked. It was a bit easier to look Kili in the eye now that Kili was dressed, even if the long tunic did remind Fili of the nights they used to sleep in their father’s old shirts as dwarflings. He reached out and tried to adjust the too-tight fit across Kili’s shoulders, tugging at the seam. At least they all looked similarly ridiculous in their too-tight tunics, bare legs, and stout dwarven boots. “Seems like a pretty boring place otherwise. They could use the excitement.” He winked. “Besides, about time they had something worth gawking at. They probably all look like hairless sticks under those fancy clothes.” 

Kíli laughed and swung an arm somewhat awkwardly across Fíli’s shoulder. The shirts pulled uncomfortably and limited their range of movement. “Well, we certainly can’t go hunting like this. Fancy looking for something to eat?”

Fíli fidgeted with the front of the borrowed shirt. He felt like every hair on his chest was being pressed in the wrong direction, and Kili’s bare leg was pressed against his from boot to knee. “I fancy finding my own clothes, but I don’t think I want to wrestle anything away from elves dressed like this.” 

Kíli fluttered his lashes at Fíli, which was one of the most disturbing things Fíli had ever seen. That he felt a flush of warmth at the sight only brought home how very deep his love for his One went. “I think you look charming,” he purred, “like a proper elven lass. I could braid flowers in your hair and we could dance –sedately - and sing while Uncle plays the harp.”

Fíli snorted a laugh. “Don’t let Uncle hear you implying the harp is an elf’s instrument. He could have played all those she-elves under the table.” Fili’d been disappointed when instruments weren’t considered necessary equipment. His and Kili’s violins were at home in their mother’s care, along with Thorin’s harp. Only Bofur had his flute along for the quest.

His brother considered this, and then nodded. “Only Nori wouldn’t have been half so bored and the dancing would’ve started sooner.” Thorin, quite at odds with his surly demeanor, knew a number of upbeat drinking songs. “Speaking of Thorin…where _is_ he?”

“He said he was going to clean up after breakfast.”

Kíli’s eyebrows rose. “Didn’t you tell him we were planning to meet out here?”

Fíli smirked. “I think bathing in fountains is a bit beneath a king’s dignity…but he definitely gave us his blessing.” It wasn’t easy to get a warm smile out of Thorin, but Fíli’s breezy allusion to the usefulness of the multi-leveled fountain to wash all of them in one convenient swoop had earned him one, along with a murmur about _not inconveniencing our hosts to fill all those fussy little tubs of theirs, good thinking, nephew._

“You think the elves sneaked into the bathing room and stole his clothes, too?”

Fíli considered this. “I think if they tried, he’d probably break a few thumbs and we’d’ve heard the caterwauling by now. Balin wouldn’t be pleased.”

Ori joined them then, having finally wiggled free of Dori’s attempts to brush his still-damp hair. “Tell me you’ve thought of something to do far away from my brothers,” he muttered, looking mutinously over Fíli’s shoulder. Nori was ripping the seams on part of his borrowed shirt with a tiny knife while Dori gathered the three brothers’ belongings into neat piles.

Kíli gave Ori a commiserating look that made Fíli frown. He was _not_ as annoying as Dori. There was no cause for Kíli and Ori to go around exchanging Understanding Little Brother looks. “How about we raid that little kitchen we found yesterday for something portable, then go see the archery range?”

“You’re the only one interested in archery,” Ori argued. They’d worked on his skill with the slingshot on the road, and he’d become increasingly accurate with it, but he’d shown no interest in Kíli’s weapon of choice. He’d cited the very real danger of damaging his hands so that he couldn’t continue as the company’s scribe as reason not to take up the bow.

“Then you can stay here and play with Dori,” Fíli offered. “Oh, look. He’s fished out that lice comb of his.”

They went to the archery range.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Isn't there some kind of rule about writing naked-dwarf-fountain-bath scenes since the extended edition came out?
> 
> If not, we should consider introducing a bill to that end.
> 
> I wish to send approximately one million thank yous to FuryNZ, enrapturedreader, Werecakes, and maisierita, and the peeps who left kudos. Out of nowhere this has already decided to be a hellish week, and they all brought up my spirits when I really needed it. :)


	5. Confidence

Many Dwarves loved their crafts instead of another dwarf. Even those who fell in love usually split their affection between craft and lover until the arrival of a wee dwarfling stole the lion’s share of their hearts away. Gloin was an exception to this rule – though he enjoyed numbers and accounting, his love for his wife outshone his affection for ledgers. The same was true of Fíli. 

The prince was, in some ways, without a craft. Though trained to be a blacksmith, he was also trained to be a warrior and a leader. As a prince without a kingdom, he was drawn in too many directions to know where his heart truly lay until he realized it rested firmly in the hands of his brother. In others, this might have led to shyness or uncertainty. In Fíli, it bolstered confidence in every step. He trusted his heart in Kíli’s keeping, and pitied those who didn’t have someone to watch out for theirs. 

Kíli’s heart belonged to Fíli, of course, but Fíli was willing to share it with Kíli’s bow. While Fíli enjoyed his weapons training and saw its usefulness, Kíli came alive with a bow in his hand. He was fierce, focused, and dangerous when he aligned the feathers of an arrow along the sharp angles of his cheek. Fíli loved him for that, as he loved his One for all things.

Even when it meant spending time with _elves._

The elves at the range weren’t as bad as some of the others. For one thing, they looked mildly useful and less decorative in sensible trousers and tunics instead of dresses. For another, they took one look at Kíli’s hands and immediately identified him as an archer – something that made Fíli’s One preen outrageously. He couldn’t shoot anything in the borrowed tunic (much to his frustration, he could barely get a good grip on a bow), but he agreed to return that evening and compare techniques. Ori did a fair job charming the elves as well, once he stopped tugging at the tunic in an embarrassed attempt to hide his hairy knees. Fíli, in true Fíli fashion, strode around with the sort of comfortable grandeur that was more suited to full ceremonial garb, and Kíli was too distracted with talking to worry about how ridiculous he looked. Ori gradually relaxed and peppered the elves with questions before bemoaning the fact that he didn’t have one of his smaller books with him so he could record their responses. The archers promptly invited him to return in the afternoon along with Kíli.

Satisfied that his brother wouldn’t be left alone with the elves, minimally useful archers or no, Fíli turned down the offer for a return visit. There was something he had noticed about the elves that he wanted to follow up on, and he wanted to do so without Kíli underfoot. 

Their clothes were clean and dry, folded neatly on the beds, when they returned to their room. The rest of the Company was around, making what looked to be a campsite on the hallway’s broad balcony, and all back in their own comfortable wools and thick boots. Most had strapped back into their leathers as well, and Fíli followed suit. 

If his heart beat a bit faster as Kíli’s clever hands helped slide the knives Fíli had forged into the hidden sheaths made by his brother, Fíli didn’t try to hide it. He reveled in the feeling, and grinned at his brother’s careful concentration. Kíli tended to poke his tongue out when he concentrated, and Fíli idly considered what it would be like to kiss it away.

Fíli felt better with most of his weapons in place and the comfort of mail under his own tunic and overcoat. Kíli threw on his clothes and bracers, but didn’t bother with his leather jerkin or thick coat. He rolled his eyes when he caught Fíli frowning at him.

“The elves aren’t going to stab me, Nadad, and I move better this way.” Fíli grunted but didn’t argue. This time. Thorin and Fíli revisited their disapproval with Kíli’s minimal armor on a fairly regular basis, but Kíli always answered that he needed free movement for his bow. Fíli admitted this on some level, but fussed over Kíli anyway (he was not as annoying as Dori!), just to remind his brother to be careful. “You sure you’ll be all right on your own?”

Fíli raised an amused eyebrow. “The elves aren’t going to stab me, Nadadith, and if they did, I have armor and,” he glanced down, “six knives on my person.”

“Is that all?” Kíli tsked. “You’re barely trying.” With a laugh and a wink, Kíli bounded off with his usual level of hyperactive enthusiasm. Some optimistic dwarves theorized that Kíli would one day outgrow his extreme level of energy; Fíli didn’t buy it for a minute. One day, they would be old dwarves curled up in front of a roaring fire, and Kíli would be vibrating in place.

With Kíli off and under the watchful eye of Ori (Ori _was_ older than them, and he _did_ have experience with watchful eyes, albeit from the other side) Fíli straightened his shoulders and strode out of their room in search of an elf.

He found one off a back corridor (he was _not_ lost, just…meandering). The elf was walking – well, gliding – away from him, which gave him a good view of the back of the elf’s head. Good. The elf had what he needed. “Excuse me!” he barked.

The elf jumped a bit, and Fíli felt a flash of smug superiority at getting some kind of reaction out of one of the tree-hugging pains in the ass. He crossed his arms across his chest and tilted back comfortably on his heels as the elf turned in a swish of long, completely useless fabric. The elf didn’t step closer to him, which meant the dwarf could keep his head tilted back at a small, reasonable angle. “Yes, Master…Dwarf?” the elf answered. The voice seemed a little high? Perhaps? And the eyes rather large. Fíli suspected it was female. 

“How do you keep the braids in your hair?” Bluntness worked well enough for Thorin and Dwalin. 

“Excuse me?”

“Your _hair_ ,” Fíli repeated, with the air of a dwarf speaking to an elf with an axe in her head. “How do you make the braids stay?”

One elegant eyebrow rose, undoubtedly at Fíli’s own neat and perfect braids (thank you, Kíli). The expression looked oddly familiar. Fíli wondered if he might have thrown something orange at her during that first dinner. He huffed. “Your hair is smoother than mine,” he expanded, since she didn’t seem interested in asking for clarification. Elves appeared to prefer communicating by _eyebrow_ to actual _speaking in the Common tongue so the rest of us can play._

The elf’s dark eyes went distant, in that obnoxious immortal elf-fashion, then suddenly sharpened. She smiled. Gently. Fíli fought the urge to roll his eyes. Why elves insisted on looking at everyone like a flock of tall, beardless, and unusually ugly mothers he did not understand. “There is a member of your company who doesn’t wear braids,” the elf mused. “Is this because they come loose?”

Fíli grunted in an affirmative sort of way. What were elves doing eyeballing his little brother’s hair? If he didn’t need an answer, he’d have told the nosy twig to go hump a tree instead of ogling Fíli’s One. 

He was so busy not-telling-the-elf-off that he didn’t realize the elf was reaching to _touch his hair_ until there was a hand on the top of his head. “Here now!” he yelped, jerking his head back so fast his neck twinged.

“My apologies, Master Dwarf.” Ugh. She was _amused._ Elves! Add inappropriate head-groping to their already long list of annoying habits. “I simply wanted to test the texture so I could better answer your question.”

Fíli eyed her suspiciously, tugging at one of his mustache braids as he weighed his options. With a little sigh of resignation, he tilted his head forward . . . just a bit. He firmly reminded himself of courting beads and braids so he wouldn’t snap at the long fingers waiting to pat his head like a wee dwarfling. 

When she started stroking, he felt a bit like a disgruntled kitten.

The elf hummed musically under her breath. “Your hair is thicker and more course than ours.” She trailed her fingers over the First Heir braid by his right ear, lifting the bead as she leaned forward to see it better. Her straight, dark hair fell around Fíli in a perfumed curtain. The overwhelming scent of mangled flowers made him want to cough, but he could well imagine Balin’s lecture if he scattered spit all over a smelly elf-maid. “I had suspected as much, from the look of some of your elders’ hair.” She’d be talking about Gloin, he suspected. Gloin’s hair was the envy of many a Dwarf, even as disheveled as the road made it, though Oin and Bifur both had fine heads also. If someone (Dori) would stop cutting Ori’s hair in such a ridiculous fashion, his could be quite fetching as well.

“What holds the beads in place?” she asked curiously, straightening. 

Fíli gratefully took a quick breath of somewhat less floral air, then reached up and flicked off one bead, holding it out. “They open and clasp together,” he said, showing her the tiny teeth that made the beads so fussy to forge. She took it from him to study them more closely. “Or we use wire to slide them on and hold them in place, if it’s a smaller braid.” He motioned to his mustache. “Ori uses ribbons and ties them off under the bead to hold it.” It was an odd look, but it worked for him. Ori was all about contradictions anyway, looking so shy in his knitted sweaters, making people gloves and blushing when he gave them, then running around threatening to disembowel dragons up the jacksies and winning belching contests with 100+ year old warriors.

“And none of these techniques works for your companion?”

Fílil snorted indelicately and held out his hand for the bead. It was one of his favorites – forged by Thorin and delicately carved by Kíli in whirls of silver. “Everything falls out in a couple of hours. We had some success with the ribbons, but he didn’t like the look of it.”

 _I am not some village lass!_ Kíli had raved, staring at himself in a mirror with something akin to horror. Fíli’d though it wasn’t so bad. They’d used very dark blue ribbons, after all. It wasn’t as if he’d gone and weaved flowers in his brother’s hair. Ah, well. Kíli was sensitive sometimes because Men, too stupid to realize that grown dwarf lasses had full beards, occasionally confused Kíli for one. While it was true that Kíli’s beard wasn’t particularly thick or luxuriant when left to grow, he trimmed it quite close in deference to his bow. The fact that he carried the weapon everywhere was enough explanation for other dwarves, but not for ignorant Men.

That Fíli also wore his beard quite short by dwarven standards as a matter of personal preference raised a few eyebrows among dwarves and had caused a few similar problems with Men. It didn’t bother him. He liked the braids Kíli put in, and didn’t feel the need for more hair on his chin. Shorter beards had become something of a fashion among the younger dwarves after the princes adopted theirs, much to the chagrin of several mothers and fathers and Fíli’s smug amusement.

The she-elf frowned. “He carries a bow. Braids would help to keep his hair clear of his arrows.”

“Aye. He has one large clasp that works fairly well,” as long as Fíli readjusted it about three times a day. He unconsciously touched the matching one on his own head. They had belonged to the princes’ father, and neither went a day without them. “Proper braids would be more helpful, though.”

The elf beamed at him and then, to his utter surprise, dropped gracefully to the ground at his feet. The heavy cloth of her dress spread around her, giving the illusion that she sat curled in a small pool of water. She looked elegant and pleased here on the floor, in the middle of an empty hallway.

Fíli’s dumbfounded expression earned him a tinkling laugh. “We are not so afraid to wrinkle our frocks as you believe,” she gently chided, “and you will certainly see my own braid better this way.” She patted his heavy boot in a fond way. “Come around and look, Master . . . ?” her thin brows rose in question.

“Fíli,” he answered, with a hint of an embarrassed smile at his rudeness, “Son of Vavi, nephew to Thorin Oakenshield.” ( _Being Thorin’s heir does not mean being Thorin!_ His mother would scold if she could see him now.) He bowed. “At your service.”

“Ah! One of the young princes!” There was another chiming laugh. It was becoming less annoying as Fíli grew accustomed to it. “I am Aewenthel.” She tipped her head a bit in greeting. “Is the wild-haired archer your brother, then? I believe he scored quite a hit on my own brother’s nose with a roll two nights ago.”

Fíli grimaced. “I’m sure he meant no offense,” he offered insincerely.

“Of course he did,” was the merry response. “Lindir should have better reflexes. He spends too much time peering at ledgers over Lord Elrond’s shoulder and not enough training his body for defense.” Fíli barked a laugh and her eyes shone up at him. 

“You’re not rushing to defend his honor?” Fíli asked with a smirk.

Aewenthel waved a dismissive hand. “Lindir is my younger brother. I defend his honor if it is truly needed, but I am quite comfortable with humor at his expense when he brings it on by being so stiff and upright.” Her eyes crinkled merrily. “I have a feeling that you are here, talking to an elf even though it makes you uncomfortable, because you are an elder brother as well.”

Fíli’s smile was genuine this time, with a bright flash of dimples. “Younger siblings do require a great deal of oversight,” he agreed, thinking of Dori, Bombur, Balin, Oin, and himself, all unable to truly stop keeping an eye on their brothers no matter how much they grew (Balin’s attempts to hover over Dwalin were especially hilarious). Even Thorin occasionally tried to coddle their formidable mother, and she less occasionally allowed it.

“Indeed!” Her small hands met in a polite little clap. “Now, Young Prince Fíli, if you will come behind me, you will see that we elves tame our hair a bit differently.”

Fíli stepped around Aewenthel, looking at her simple braids. Two ropes pulled the hair back from her face and over the pointed ears, meeting on the back of her head and twisting down in a single plait. The design wasn’t unlike the symbolism of a courting braid, though it used less strands. He frowned. “There aren’t any beads or clasps,” he said. “What holds it at the end?”

“A special knot.” She raised a hand to the end of her joined braid and lifted it in offering. “The material is a weave designed to stretch, and the knot holds true but is relatively easy to remove.”

Fíli held the dark hair carefully in his square, calloused fingers, leaning down to see the thin silvery strip and the tiny knot. “And this stays?”

“It does.”

“I could place a bead and knot this below it,” Fíli mused. “That might work. Where would I get some of this weave? And could you show me the knot?”

“You may have this one,” the elf lass offered with equanimity, “and there are others in my rooms, or I could show you the textile market. It is near closing time.”

Fíli dropped the braid suddenly, lifting his hands away as though scalded. “I can’t take something from your _hair_!” he protested, scandalized. He could just imagine Thorin’s response if his heir ended up inadvertently courting an elf-maid. Dragonfire would be nothing compared to his uncle’s ire.

Aewenthel glanced curiously over one thin shoulder. “Why not?”

“Because you’re not my-” Fíli frowned, remembering suddenly a couple of lectures they’d quietly received (quiet for Bofur, anyway) from Bofur about not expecting their hobbit to know everything about dwarf culture. He took a breath. “Among dwarves, offering a bead from your own hair indicates a strong attachment. It’s usually only done between family members.” He paused and ran a hand over his hidden pocket. “Giving a bead or clasp crafted by your own hand means even more than that.” Unless it was ridiculously carved, then it was an indication of abject failure and an invitation to laughter.

“Ah!” Her eyes shone. “Among elves, the giving of useful items has such meaning – bows or quills, for example – but not adornment for one’s hair.” She shifted to stand. Fíli held out a hand automatically, and then felt immediately foolish. Her head was already level with his throat, even sitting. But Aewenthel slipped her delicate hand in his with a smile, then waited patiently as Fíli figured out the logistics and took a step back, pulling her effortlessly to her feet. She laughed again. It seemed elves laughed a great deal. It reminded Fíli for a moment of Kíli, and he felt an odd throb of loneliness.

“You dwarves are as strong as I’ve heard,” the she-elf smiled.

Fíli hooked his thumbs over his belt, leaving his feet spread and smirking merrily up at her. “And you elves nearly as light as I have heard. Our hobbit claimed you could float on water like feathers, but I’m fairly certain you’d at least wet your ankles, Lady.”

Delicate fingers touched Fíli’s shoulder as she giggled. “Indeed, Master Fíli, I believe I would be quite wet indeed if I attempted to walk on water.” Her expression turned a bit sly. “As wet as your company in the forward fountains.” Fíli's smirk widened to a grin, and her docile smile took on a mischievous edge he wouldn’t have believed an elf capable of. “I will be pleased to escort you to an artisan who can provide you with the necessary materials. Then we shall practice knotting.” She held up a slender finger. “All I ask in return is that you share some of your travails as an elder sibling with me. I begin to suspect elves and dwarves may have more in common than I am taught to imagine.”

Fíli sketched a small bow, the dimple flashing again on his left cheek. “Thank you Lady Elf. Your help is much appreciated.”

By the time the Company slipped secretly out of Rivendell, six delicate silver strips had been added to the beads over Fíli’s heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right now, _Arrogance_ has 69 kudos.
> 
> . . . I am going to blame my utterly childish moment of amusement on the fact that I spend seven hours a day in the company of teenagers.
> 
> On another note, I considered warning for an OC (there are precious few named she-elves in Rivendell, and I didn't want to use Arwen), but she only appears in this chapter. Lindir's name apparently means "singing bird" in Sindarin. http://elf.namegeneratorfun.com/ lists Aewenthel as "of bird-sister.". She's written more as a book-elf of Rivendell, more likely to laugh and song silly songs than intimidate guests with shows of horsepower.


	6. Affection

Dwarves in love were much more physically demonstrative than Men or Elves gave them credit for. While kissing was kept to a minimum in public, dwarven couples were in no way uncomfortable with holding hands, leaning against each other, or touching foreheads, shoulders, and wrists. The most intimate public shows of affection, however, had to do with personal grooming. Siblings were expected to fuss over each other to some degree. Lovers who became close enough to be family would take on similar tendencies, with perhaps more stroking and petting than most siblings engaged in. Pressing light kisses to the end of lovingly crafted braids was a popular method for showing deep and lasting affection between lovers.

Kíli had always considered Fíli’s hair his personal property. When he was still so small that his dark head barely reached their mother’s knee, he would clamber into her lap while she brushed Fíli’s hair, demand the comb, and get to work. For such a cheerful dwarf, he’d been an imperious little brat. There’d been some pain at first – uncoordinated little hands weren’t designed for delicately working through tangles – but those clever fingers soon learned how to gently card through Fíli’s golden strands. Fíli, meanwhile, had learned to sit patiently as Dis taught his little brother how to braid using Fíli’s hair. By the time he hit double digits, Kíli would braid with more precision and in more patterns than Fíli managed as an adult. 

Kíli had also developed a tendency, around his twentieth year, to practice on Fíli’s hair when he slept. Fíli had awakened more than once with two dozen tiny braids that turned into delicate waves around his face when he irritably released them in the morning. The first time, Kíli apologized. The others, he rolled around on the ground laughing. 

Fíli would have loved to say Kíli eventually outgrew this particular childhood prank, but the crinkled curls coming down from his top clasp the evening he met Bilbo Baggins proved otherwise.

Being on the road didn’t leave much room for the sort of interpersonal grooming that took place when the dwarves were in their own homes around the mountain. The first time they’d had a chance to properly clean-up had been in Rivendell. The next was weeks later, in the aftermath of goblins, orcs, and giant eagles, in Beorn’s Halls.

Fíli was sprawled on the floor, his back against a huge sofa as he puffed lazily at his pipe, when Kíli appeared at his side with a comb and a very determined look in his eye.

“Budge up,” he ordered.

“I’m comfortable here, brother,” Fíli drawled, even though they both knew he was going to give in. Fíli’d always given in, even before he started to think of Kíli’s fingers as those of a lover and not just a brother. Now the order sent a bit of a warm shiver down his spine.

Kíli rolled his eyes. “Your hair’s a mess, and I’m going to fix it. Budge up.”

“You,” Fíli said, pointing his pipe at his brother with a smirk, “should not be talking about messy hair.” Kíli’s hair looked like he’d been in the middle of a tornado which, Fíli considered, wasn’t far from the truth. However, they’d all had a good wash an hour earlier, taking turns in Beorn’s giant tubs, which was why there were now twelve lazy, relaxed, and slightly damp dwarves scattered around the skinchanger’s home. The thirteenth, of course, was Thorin, who was incapable of relaxing. He was brooding by the fire. Even their hobbit looked tranquil, his damp locks beginning to curl around his ears as he argued the merits of various pipeweeds with Gloin and Bifur. 

Exactly how he was arguing with Bifur when they didn’t share a language Fíli didn’t know.

Kíli stared at him, entirely unimpressed. Fíli gave a little huff of a laugh and scooted forward as ordered, his body knowing exactly how far to move for Kíli to kneel comfortably behind him. The familiar fingers slid immediately in his thick hair, searching out and calming tangles before he bothered with the comb. Fíli felt his shoulders relax and his eyes slide shut at the pulls on his scalp. Kíli hummed softly to himself, tuneless as always, but obviously content. 

Kíli could take down, comb, and re-braid Fíli’s hair in a matter of five or ten minutes when they were both running late for some appointment. This night, however, they had nowhere to be, and the shadow of giants, goblins, orcs, and blood hung over them. 

They hadn’t discussed any of it. Not the fall into the dark, not the headlong rush, not their shared fear as their uncle was crushed between the jaws of a great warg and thrown aside like garbage. 

Not Kíli’s face on the mountainside, as Fíli screamed for him.

_Kíli, take my hand!_

Fíli had never been more afraid in his life. Seeing the mountain coming at them had been horrifying, but by then he had seen that Kíli was safe on a ledge. Fíli was afraid of dying, but that was nothing to his fear of a world without Kíli.

“It’s over now,” came his One’s soft voice from behind him. Fíli realized he’d tensed back up, his shoulders a solid mass of muscle. Kíli gave a thick lock of hair a little tug before reaching around Fíli to place the elder’s beads and clasps in his tense hand. “We’re all here and safe.”

Fíli forced a slow breath in. Out. “Thank Mahal,” he murmured. 

Kíli echoed the prayer into Fíli’s hair before cheekily adding, “And small, brave hobbits.”

Fíli’s eyes open and sought out their hobbit. There was bruising along his jaw, and he still sat a bit carefully from similar marks under his shirt, but he looked, on the whole, hale and hearty. He was a far cry from the terrified and feral little creature who had so fiercely defended their uncle while Fíli clung frozen to the limbs of a fallen tree. “Aye,”he said with a small smile, “and small, brave hobbits.”

“I am not _so_ small, you know,” Bilbo’s voice drifted to them, “for a hobbit.”

“Aren’t you?” Kíli asked, unperturbed at the apparent eavesdropping. “I admit we didn’t see many when he came through Hobbiton, so I wasn’t sure.”

“They’d probably seen Dwalin marching through first and rushed behind their hobbit-doors,” Fíli commented, letting his eyes fall shut again. Kíli finally decided to involve the comb, but still seemed in no particular hurry. 

Dwalin’s loud snort overlaid a hiccup of a laugh from Ori. Bilbo went on, “No, I’m actually a bit on the tall side. For a hobbit. Nothing like Bullroarer, of course, but I’m not at all small.”

“Then my apologies, Master Bilbo,” Kíli said with teasing seriousness. “Thank Mahal for tall, brave hobbits.” Despite the teasing, a soft murmur of agreement went up from the company. Fíli recognized the low rumble of his uncle’s voice, and imagined a pink flush on the hobbit’s ears. 

A comfortable silence fell for some time. Fíli felt Kíli give in to the urge to fidget and play with his hair, braids being fashioned and released, divided into three strands, four, even six. Kíli always liked to keep his hands busy, but he’d never done so in this manner for so long. Fíli’s groin stirred and he thought it’d be nice if the chairs weren’t quite so big, so Kíli could sit in one properly and Fíli could lean back into him. 

A light chuckle made him open his eyes. It was their burglar, whose hazel eyes were twinkling and merry with some secret joke. It suited him better, Fíli thought, than the wide-eyed fear that had clouded them for the last days. “What is it?” he asked curiously.

Bilbo laughed again as he refilled his pipe. “I am sorry,” he said, though his smile said otherwise. “It’s just that, all through this journey I’ve come to see all of you a bit as wolves, or perhaps badgers.” Fíli arched an eyebrow at that. 

“It’s a hobbit idiosyncrasy I suppose, equating people with animals. We often give carvings or other gifts with animal shapes that remind us of the receiver.”

“Did you receive such gifts?” Kili asked, interested. In anyone else it would have been “nosily,” bit Kili’s bright, curious eyes helped him get away with any number of impertinent questions and interruptions. When Fili was young, he’d often been annoyed at the way Kili could wiggle out of trouble with one look. As an adult, he saw it as a personal advantage when he could use it for his own nefarious ends. Kili was largely unaware of his particular power, as he genuinely _was_ just that curious and sweet-natured (as well as mischievous, hyper, and troublesome).

“Of course,” Bilbo said, “and before you ask, the majority of them were hedgehogs.” This was met with stifled chuckles that made their hobbit roll his eyes, but his expressive mouth tugged into a smile. 

“Doubtless,” Bofur’s merry voice said, “that was due to your _sharp_ wit rather than any physical similarities!”

Bilbo laughed then. “Thank you, Bofur. That’s much appreciated.”

Kili shifted and gathered the bulk of Fili’s hair in his hands. Cool air brushed the back of the elder’s suddenly bare neck, and Fili shivered. “What are we, then, Bilbo?” Kili asked curiously as he began to braid one thick plait, fussing in some of the smaller braids, similar to how he would fix it before Fili went to the forge.

“Well, you’re all so loyal and fierce that I’d definitely settled on badgers.” There were some sounds of protest. Bilbo continued undaunted. Their jumpy burglar had found his equanimity down in the goblin tunnels, along with his courage. “But right at the moment, I’m afraid all I can think of is the barn behind my grandfather’s smial. He kept ponies there, you see, but where there’s livestock there will always be cats. In Gerontius’ case, that meant fluffy, happy cats, because he had a terrible soft spot for them. Any time you went in the barn they would be sprawled all over the place in happy piles, purring away as they groomed each other.” 

Fíli must have looked mildly affronted at the comparison, because Bilbo grinned and said, “They were also quite fierce at catching mice,” as a sort of apology, “and sometimes small snakes. One huge gray tom used to leave snakelings in my basket when I climbed apple trees.” Fíli snorted.

Kíli’s soft chuckle behind him made any embarrassing comparisons to spoiled barn cats worth it. “I think it’s a fair comparison, brother. Take a look around.”

Fíli did, and then let out his own laugh. All over the room, dwarves were gathered in their little family groups, brushing, combing, and braiding hair. Bofur was putting the finishing touches on Bifur’s beard as Bombur, Bofur’s hat in his lap, happily put in his brother’s pigtails. Gloin and Oin sat facing each other, their expressions very serious indeed as they combed out tangles in each other’s beards and quietly discussed styling options. Balin, in a move that struck Fíli as more adorable than any wise old dwarf had a right to be, was perched on the edge of one of Beorn’s high chairs with Dwalin standing in front of him. Dwalin was looking about the room with only a hint of his customary scowl, arms crossed, while his brother fussed with the back of his head. He looked remarkably relaxed, for Dwalin. 

Kíli laughed over his head and nudged Fíli’s chin to the right. Dori was sitting between his quarrelsome brothers with an expression of wide-eyed shock as Nori and Ori, working in tandem and with a minimum of fussing, gently wound his elegant braids with delicate touches. Ori’s hair was in its customary ribbons, but Nori’s was a wild auburn fall down his back. Dori’s fingers kept twitching a bit in his middle brother’s direction, but Nori was having none of it, occasionally growling under his breath for Dori to _sit still and let someone take care of you for a change, you overbearing oaf._

“Maybe we are a _bit_ like cats,” Fíli reluctantly agreed, “but surely we could at least be some sort of mountain lion or wildcats.”

Bilbo grinned at him. “I’ve never met either, but as long as they roll, preen, and purr, feel free.”

A low, creaky chuckle came from Thorin, who was curled easily beside the massive fireplace. His dark hair, so like Kíli’s, brushed his cheeks without the customary braids framing his face. “I am not sure it is so much worse than being a badger, nephew. We cannot all be proud hedgehogs.” His eyes were fond, and Fíli thought of their uncle screaming for him, reaching out, disappearing as Fíli and the others slammed onto a rock ledge. 

Fíli nudged Kíli’s knee, regretting it a bit when Kíli’s hands disappeared from his hair. Both heirs stood as one and made their way to the fireplace, perching on the high rock ledge on either side of their uncle. 

“Mine’s going to be better,” Kíli announced. Fíli scoffed, even though he was obviously right, and they both gathered dark hair in their hands. “We’ll let Bilbo judge.”

“Ohhh no,” Bilbo raised his hands. “I want no part of that. I don’t fancy being knocked over by the winner _or_ the loser. I’m sure you’ll both do fine.”

Thorin raised an eyebrow at them, but let them carry on, handing over his beads when asked. 

“Bilbo!” Bofur called from across the room. “If you want to be impressed by the fine grooming habits of dwarves, you’re in the wrong place.” He grinned. “We’re about to work on my brother here.” Bilbo’s eyes widened. “Come on, then, you know you’re curious.” The toymaker motioned Bilbo over and the hobbit, chuckling to himself, walked over to witness the wonder that was Bombur’s unwound beard in all its glory.

Fíli admitted some curiosity as to what the great braid looked like unraveled, himself, but didn’t want to leave Kíli and Thorin just yet.

With Thorin’s hair seen to (Kíli’s side _was_ better, and then he insisted on fixing Fíli’s attempt), Kíli settled on the floor beside their uncle and handed back his clasp to Fíli. Fíli stroked his fingers through the long strands, imagining a myriad of designs for beads that he would never be able to pull off. Of course, he’d barely had a chance to try, the way they were all under each other’s feet. He’d worked some while he was on watch, but low firelight did nothing to assist his sad skills. He’d thrown out five of his dozen blanks already. They looked like child’s drawings. Feathers came out as scribbles, patterns of wind and rain like splotches of mud. He would try again tonight, when Kíli went to sleep, here by this large fire. If there was nothing else for it, he would find some time to get Bifur or Bofur alone. They spent every night carving intricate toys and designs such as he’d never seen before. Surely they’d be willing to give him advice.

Kili deserved beads that revealed all aspects of his personality: fierce and kind, mischievous and caring, curious and hard-headed, graceful and awkward. 

Fili’s beads would only make people think Kili drew like a wee dwarfling with a broken hand.

Kíli leaned heavily against Thorin’s shoulder, content for once to be silent, as Fíli straightened out his hair as much as was possible. He pulled the front back and slid in the clasp that matched his own. Then, with Kíli distracted and drowsy, he briskly plaited courting braids in his brother’s hair. 

They were perfect.

The beads felt heavy over his heart, and Fíli lifted the end of the unbound braid to press it against his lips. Kíli smelled of pipeweed and sunlight, wind and clean river water. His eyes closed for a moment at the silken texture, at the rhythm of Kíli’s breaths against his knees, at Kíli warm and alive. 

If they had been alone that night, not sleeping in the middle of the hall surrounded by kith and kin, Fíli would have slid on a bead – blank or not – tied it off with his bit of elven thread, and pressed kisses to Kíli’s forehead, his eyelids, his lips. He would have curled around him and breathed him in and written sonnets on his skin, since he had no gift for pretty words. 

But they were not alone, so Fíli opened his eyes and lifted his head with a wry smile. To his surprise, warm brown eyes met his. Bofur’s eyebrows were high, his mustache twitching curiously. Then the toymaker smiled, broad and pleased, and nodded.

Fíli inclined his head in return as his One began to snore softly into their uncle’s shoulder.

“. . . He’s not going to drool on me, is he?” came Thorin’s low, concerned voice.

“Oh,” Fíli corrected, “he most definitely will.”

Thorin sighed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter deviates from established movie canon in that Thorin can tell his nephews apart and knows which one was right behind him on the mountain and which one was about to be squished. I’m sure he also knows which one is older, unlike his book counterpart.
> 
> In the _Chronicles_ , Jed Brophy mentioned how there should have been a scene around the fire with the dwarves doing each other's hair. I couldn't find it in a quick flip through, which is all I had time for, so I don't have the proper quote/source...but I loved the idea. This was actually the last chapter I wrote of this fic, well after finishing the overall story. I tried to talk myself into pruning it out due to its being total and absolute fluff. I was unsuccessful, however, because....fluff. I like it.


	7. Pain

Falling in love was hard for most Dwarves, but for Fíli, it was easy.

Until the day his brother nearly died.

Until the day his brother rambled of starlight. And love. 

Until the day an elf saved his brother’s life and stole his brother’s smile while Fíli stood by, helpless and mute.

That day, love became something painful, and aching, and _hard._

Her name, Fíli learned in a haze of paralyzing fear and horrible helplessness, was _Tauriel._ She was the captain of the thrice-damned elf-king’s guard, and she had doubtless brought some trouble upon herself by following their company into Lake-town. When she’d first appeared, he’d barely noticed her existence. His world in that moment had been _Kíli_. Kíli’s strong body drenched in sweat, his eyes wild with pain, his chest moving in heaving gasps for precious air, his voice gone rough from crying out for relief, his skin pale and cold beneath Fíli’s fingertips. Fíli didn’t truly realize anyone was there until Oin all but shoved him out of the way so the she-elf could take _his_ place at Kíli’s side. 

She’d been gentle, and kind, more reminiscent of the elves of Rivendell than of the Mirkwood. He’d seen the worry in her face and choked on it – Oin’s clear concern had been terrifying enough, followed by Thorin’s dismissal and now this immortal creature, looking close to tears. His brother was dying.

His Consort.

His _One._

His _Kíli._

Then Bofur had run away, and another elf had appeared, but Fíli noticed none of it. He shouldered his way to the other side of the table and wiped cool water along Kíli’s neck and chest, stroked thick fingers through the tangles of his hair, and murmured words for his One’s ears alone. Words about _now_ and _love_ and _stay_ and _forever._ He didn’t know, truly, if he even said the words aloud or only prayed them against Kíli’s ears.

Kíli lived.

The she-elf saved him, and for that Fíli was ready to pledge his devotion to the elf and her kin for the rest of their lives. He was ready to raid Erebor himself and regain whatever sparkly trinkets her king desired and fashion them into a proper crown for the arrogant bastard’s head. He would write songs if that was what she wished of him for pressing flowers to his brother’s heart and making it beat again. 

But then Kíli spoke, and his joy twisted into dust in Fíli’s chest.

He spoke of starlight. He spoke of worlds. He spoke of _far away_ and _dreams._ He spoke of love.

“Do you think she could have loved me?” his One asked, his One begged, and Fíli didn’t know what to say.

Was Kíli even speaking to him? Or to her? To Mahal? To himself? Fíli didn’t know. He didn’t answer.

Kíli lived, and Fíli hurt.

Elf-medicine was amazing. Oin said so – repeatedly – at length – with awe in his voice. The morning after the she-elf healed him, Kíli could sit up on the chair Bard’s daughter filled with blankets for him and drink soup from a small cup. He grinned at the remaining dwarves, at the Man and his children, at the she-elf who lingered and sprinkled herbs into his cup with clever fingers. Fíli watched his brother’s hands shake so that he would have worn as much soup as he drank had he been using a spoon, but he did not move to help him. He sat on a hard wooden chair near the window and watched Kíli with confused eyes. He shouldn’t look – he told himself to stop, every time Kíli grinned because some ridiculous comment made the elf smile, Fíli’s chest ached in a new and horrible way – but he had to see. He had to see Kíli alive and smiling, pale but breathing. So he would look again, and his heart would sing _now now now_ while his eyes drank in _never never never._

The she-elf left eventually, to check on the other elf who had followed her to Lake-Town. The Man and his children wandered off somewhere to buy supplies, and Bofur invited himself and Oin along. Fíli told his feet to follow, but they didn’t. He found himself alone with Kíli as his brother dozed under the blankets. 

They were sliding down, but Fíli didn’t fix them. It felt strange to watch Kíli shiver and do nothing about it – he had first tucked Kíli in when he was a babe and never stopped over the years. But he did not want to touch him now. He thought his heart might break if he did.

Time slid by in increments, or was it a torrent? His thoughts were too tangled to tell. Where had this come from? Why hadn’t he seen? He’d heard his brother’s conversation with the she-elf in their prison, their voices ricocheting around the room. At the time he’d been glad of it – he couldn’t _see ___Kíli , but he could _hear ___him. His voice had been a balm as Fíli crouched in his own cell, feeling helpless and naked without the blades he forged, the hilts his brother carved. He’d been relieved to hear Kíli still had the stone his mother had given him. His own was tucked safely into a small catch inside his boot. _To remember your promise,_ she’d told Kíli . _To remember your duty,_ she’d told him.

_Don’t be a fool, Fíli . Your place is with the company._

_My place is with my brother!_

Fíli told himself again to leave. Kíli was well enough that a few minutes alone wouldn’t place his life in danger. 

He stayed. 

Should he have known there was more than idle chatter in their words? Kíli talked all the time, he talked to everyone. He was friendly and gregarious, a wide, honest smile always peeking over Fíli ’s shoulder. Fíli would know. He’d been on the receiving end of that wandering tongue since the day Kíli learned to talk. His brother, toddling in his footsteps with a constant litany of _wassat, Fee? Wassat? Wassat?_ Fíli had talked to the she-elf in Rivendell, at length. Was it really so different? 

Fíli wanted to sleep, but he stayed awake, curled in the too-big chair like a child, and watched his brother shiver as his blanket slid to the floor. 

Kíli woke when Bard’s eldest, the girl Sigrid, came in with another cup of soup. She gently shook Kíli ’s foot to wake him, and then carefully passed the cup to his still-weak hands. Kíli took it with a sleepy smile and leaned forward to breathe in the scent of it. His nose wrinkled. “It smells strange.” Kíli was not an especially picky eater, but since the time he’d eaten some bad meat and spent two days vomiting while Fíli and Dis held his hair and rubbed his back, he was very suspicious of anything that didn’t immediately agree with his nose. 

The girl smiled. “Tauriel added some herbs. She said they taste a bit sharp, but they’ll speed your healing.” She leaned down and gathered the blanket from the floor, tucking it in around his legs with the expertise of an elder sister, well-used to caring for little siblings. 

Kíli smiled. Fíli looked out the window. Sigrid sat and talked with Kíli a while, small talk about the town and weather, the supplies the others had gone to buy. 

“Do you want anything, Prince Fíli?” 

When Fíli didn’t answer immediately, Kíli called his name. He turned. 

“I’m sorry?” 

“Do you want something to eat? You look tired. The soup might do you good, as well.” 

She was gentle, this girl. How like an _elf._

“No.” 

She frowned. “You need to eat.” She paused, considering. “There’s some salted pork. I could make something less medicinal. I’ll go and gather some bread and cheese.” She bustled out before Fíli could assure her that his body had no interest in food. 

Kíli gave a tired little tsk of amusement. “Already inspiring the mother hen in our hosts,” he joked. “It’s because your braids are a mess, brother. She’s taking pity on you.” 

“I don’t need your medicine,” Fíli answered as he stared out the window. He could not see a great deal; the window was set at a height for a standing man, not a sitting dwarf. “I wasn’t the one hurt.” 

Kíli chuckled, though Fíli hadn’t said anything amusing, then huffed in annoyance as a lock of hair slipped over his ear and along the edge of his cup. He’d been sipping away at the stuff for well over twenty minutes, his faintly trembling hands and lips slowing him down. The soup still sloshed occasionally, dripping onto the borrowed Man’s shirt and sliding along the ends of Kíli’s messy hair. 

_I’m sure he’d allow Tauriel to feed him and stop making such a mess of himself,_ Fíli thought waspishly. The spite felt heavy and strange in his mind, and blessedly held his tongue. He did not wish to fight with Kíli in this state. 

Kíli shoved at the hair, only to have it immediately slide forward and all the way into the soup. “Brother!” he finally growled, and turned tired eyes to meet Fíli’s. His mouth, still far too pale, quirked into a shadow of his usual grin. “Mother will be sorry she missed this.” He grabbed a slightly potatoed lock and waved it in Fíli’s direction. “I’ll let you braid me up as elaborately as Dori if it will keep my hair out of this blasted soup!” 

Fíli froze. His voice, when it emerged, sounded strange even to his own inner ear. “Are you asking me to braid your hair?” he asked, too slowly. 

Kíli shrugged. “We both know it’s a lost cause, but maybe it’ll stay still long enough to finish eating?” His eyebrows rose hopefully. 

Fíli sat so still and for so long, staring at him, that Kíli’s wavering smile fell into a confused grimace. “Fi-” 

“No.” The word burst out of Fíli, not loud, but sharp and disbelieving. “No. Kíli.” Fíli’s voice was an angry growl, low in his throat. He had never before sounded so much like their uncle. 

He fled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AO3 hated me while I tried to post this. It wanted to italicize everything, which made nothing italicized. Given my _terrible tendency_ to _abuse italics,_ that was unacceptable.
> 
> This is the first chapter of this fic that was written, before the marathon madness that became the rest of the story.


	8. Tremble

Falling in love was dangerous for Dwarves. When you can love only once, your heart must be given with great care. Folk tales and legends were filled with dwarves who gave their hearts too freely, and suffered a long life alone as a result: the sort of _alone_ that could drive a dwarf to isolation or madness, something beyond eccentricity.

Fíli had not been careful with his heart. He had never imagined there would be a need.

Fíli wandered the rickety bridges of Lake-town for several hours. He walked differently now, his steps stilted and his back straight, no easy sway in his hips and knees. Those back in Thorin’s Halls who didn’t care for his easy confidence, his bold stride ( _arrogant_ , they whispered, _foolhardy_ ), would have loved to see the golden prince brought so low. He moved, in those hours, like an old, old man.

He finally crossed to the dock where he had seen his uncle and the company off. He sat on the edge, the tips of his boots dangling in the water as he stared toward the Lonely Mountain in the distance and remembered the fury and betrayal in his voice, the heavy, hot length of Kíli’s body trembling against his own.

_I will carry him if I must!_

_My place is with my brother!_

Or his place was nowhere. He should have followed Thorin.

 _No,_ he thought. He would have been driven mad, not knowing if his brother lived or died. Even in all his hurt and confusion, Fíli couldn’t lie to himself that badly. 

He didn’t know what to do now. Fíli wasn’t used to uncertainty. Like his uncle, Fíli found goals and drove toward them. Certainly he didn’t have Thorin’s dark obsession, but the drive was there. When he realized he liked working at the forge, he dedicated eight hours a day and forgot to eat until Thorin ordered him away from the anvil or his mother arrived with a well-stocked basket. He practiced at least two hours a day with a sword in each hand, more on days he wasn’t at the forge, throwing knives and axes secreted around his person until he could flick them almost carelessly at any target. When Kili made himself sick on bad meat, Fili bothered half the guardsmen for weeks to teach him about herbs and foraging and how to safely roast kills over a fire. 

He had never looked at another dwarf, male or female, because he knew his heart belonged to Kíli. Only now did that behavior seem to hint at obsession. 

Fíli wondered if he could convince one of the Men to give him a boat. Kíli was going to live. He had Oin, Bofur, and the she-elf to watch over him. Perhaps Fíli could row to the mountain and join the others.

The ground shook.

Fíli frowned and looked down at the lake. Ripples marred its surface as the dock trembled again, just slightly. “An earthquake?” he murmured, even as images of stone giants and his brother reaching out for him flashed behind his eyes. A strange roar sounded, just on the edge of his hearing. “No . . .” his head snapped up, staring at the Lonely Mountain. “A dragon,” he whispered. 

He ran so hard for Bard’s house that his breath was coming in harsh pants when he burst through the door. “Dragon!” he cried, gasping around the word.

“Fíli!” Bofur called from his position in one of the too-large chairs. “Where have you been? Your brother asks for you but won’t tell us why you left.” His worried eyes made Fíli hurt. 

“Where is Kíli?” Fíli demanded. He sounded like Thorin in that moment, though he didn’t know it.

“Sleeping,” Bofur answered with a frown, “finally. Oin gave him something. Where _were_ you?” 

Fíli didn’t answer, his eyes instead darting around the room until he found the two elves. He recognized the blond elf with a stab of fear. It was Thranduil’s son, the blond guard who had dragged Thorin around like a recalcitrant dwarfling. Why was he here? Had the she-elf convinced him to come? It didn’t matter now. He directed his sharp words to the female. “Thorin has awakened the dragon,” he told her quickly. “It moves within the mountain and shakes the earth.”

“Was that not your goal, _Naugrim_? Is that not what my father and Bard warned you of?” growled the prince, but Fíli ignored him as well. He focused on the she-elf. _Tauriel._

“This town is made of wood and built on water,” Fíli said. “Should the dragon come, it will be completely destroyed.” Fíli’s arms ached to rush into the small bedroom and carry Kíli away from this place. Fíli’s eyes closed a fraction of a moment, and then refocused on Kili’s elf. “I would ask you to take my brother from here. Take him into the ruins of Dale. There are buildings of stone there, and no reason to attack it when it stands empty. Take the children of Bard as well. Bofur and Oin will help you.” 

He heard Bofur’s disbelieving shout, Oin’s sharp protests, but only as background noise. Kíli was his everything. Kíli was his One. Keeping him alive mattered more than his own broken heart. “And where will you go?” Tauriel asked, her voice light but not dismissive or condescending. She knew they were in danger; she was a warrior and a captain, for all that she was an elf.

“I’ll take a boat and cross the water to my kin,” he said. He barreled on before anyone could argue. “Will Kíli be able to walk?”

Tauriel’s gaze fluttered to the closed door. “No, he is too weak.”

“Then you will carry him.” It was not a question. Fíli gave it as an order. Her ancient eyes met his and she nodded.

“Yes. I will carry him.”

“You must go now. Bring a bow for Kíli, if you can find one quickly enough.” She nodded slowly, the other elf looking on with clear discomfort at her acquiescence to a dwarf’s orders. Fíli turned to Bofur and Oin, who both eyed him with wary uncertainty. “Protect them.” He stepped forward and rested a hand on Bofur’s right shoulder, Oin’s left. “Keep Kíli safe.”

Bofur’s bushy brows drew together, his jovial mouth twisting into a frown. “You’ll break his heart, laddie,” he murmured for Fíli’s ears only, “if you leave him here.”

Fíli’s head pounded, his chest felt tight. “He’ll be fine as long as the she-elf stays with him,” he argued, hating to put it into words, trying to sound certain and calm and not devastated. Bofur’s disbelieving expression made him suspect he failed. “ _Please,_ Bofur. Get out of Lake-town and into Dale. Protect Bard’s children. They’ve been nothing but kind to us.” _And we’ve brought the very ruin Bard accused us of_.

The toymaker studied him a moment, then lifted his own hand to squeeze Fíli’s. “I will fight to keep them safe, my prince,” he said quietly, “to my last breath.”

Bofur had never before called Fíli a prince. Very few did. Fíli managed a weak smile and turned away. “Hurry!” he snapped at the elves. “If Smaug leaves the mountain, it could mean the end of Lake-town.”

The elven prince glanced at Tauriel. “I will warn the townspeople. You take the dwarves and the children.” The she-elf nodded and the prince disappeared out the door on fleet feet. 

Fíli quickly gathered several kitchen knives, for lack of better options, and strapped them in the sheaths Kíli’d made for him. They didn’t fit properly, but they were better than nothing. The ill-fit of the blades made them shift as they moved, and only added to the sensation, brought on by Kíli’s fevered words, that he didn’t fit inside his skin. Hopefully he could gather proper swords when he reached the mountain. Thorin had assured them there would be full armories.

He needed to go. He had to move quickly. He didn’t know how long it would take to cross the lake. Bofur and Oin were already leading the children out, the boy protesting but the eldest girl overruling him. Fíli took a slow, careful breath. His chest didn’t want to expand properly.

“Master Fíli.”

Fíli looked up into the narrow face of his One’s . . . whatever she might be. He didn’t know. Was she Kíli’s One? Did she know what that meant? Would she fight as fiercely as Fíli to keep Kíli safe? He knew Kíli would do anything he could to protect her. Anything less would be unworthy of his brother. He was so focused on her face that it took a small moan at her breast for him to realize that she held Kíli in her arms, his cheek pressed against her shoulder like a child.

Fíli had certainly carried Kíli around more times than he could count, but not in such an odd and strangely intimate position. He’d carried the babe on his own small hip, and the teenager on his back, and hauled the half grown dwarfling along his side as Kíli grew taller and taller still. Kíli looked so very small in her arms. His skin was still pale, but his hair was clean now and pulled back into a high tail. _At least she didn’t braid it,_ he thought, and winced at the pettiness of it in this moment, as a dragon rumbled beneath the mountain.

He didn’t answer her immediately because he couldn’t find the words. He wondered what his expression looked like, which of the emotions roiling in his chest were revealed on his face. Fear? Fury? Pain? Did she know he wanted to lay his hands on her for touching his One? That he wanted to wrench his brother from her arms and shower him with all the kisses he had held back these last weeks? Could she see that he was nearly paralyzed with fear at the thought of a _dragon_ destroying this town with Kíli inside it? Perhaps it showed nothing at all. He hoped not.

“Master Fíli,” she repeated, “there is no reason you cannot come with us.” 

Fíli’s gaze met hers, unflinching. “There are many things you don’t know, Lady Elf, and I will not tell them to you.” He thought his voice was almost even, the quiver nearly hidden under a strange calm at odds with his usual cockiness. “Concern yourself with making haste. If you can’t reach Dale, at least reach the edges of the lake, as far from the town as you can manage. Go into the water if you must.” He reached out and nearly touched the still-damp fall of his brother’s hair over her arm. “Kíli can swim, but you may have to help him, as weak as he is.” His fingers curled into a fist just before he would have touched, and he lowered it to his side. “I’m trusting you with the most important person in my world,” he told her, “my brother and my heir.” _And everything else,_ but he did not say so.

Her eyes studied him, and he knew he had revealed far more than he intended. He had thought everyone knew, and now it seemed no one had. Then he gave himself away to the elf who stole his One’s heart while he dallied over beads. He pressed forward before she could speak. He couldn’t stand her gentle elven pity now. “Go.”

Tauriel nodded slowly and turned, moving with surprising swiftness toward the door. Kíli’s solid weight in her arms didn’t seem to slow her at all. It reminded him of the fierceness she’d shown in the woods, slashing down spiders with bow and sword. At least his One had a strong guard, as well as a gentle one.

“Wait!”

She pivoted silently in the doorway and Fíli ran toward her, graceless, tripping on his own feet as he hadn’t done since he was a dwarfling with Kíli clinging to the back of his jacket. He fumbled blindly at his chest, into the hidden pocket over his heart, and pulled out the pouch of beads and delicate elven ties. “These are Kíli’s,” he said, and it was true. Three were a mess of failed carvings, and the rest were blank, but they were still Kíli’s. “I thought I-” _made them to weave into his hair_ , “but maybe-” _I crafted them so he could carve them for you._

He stuttered, and left everything unsaid, and tucked the little bag inside Kíli’s borrowed shirt.

“Go,” he repeated, his voice hoarse and angry. 

Tauriel ran so lightly along the wooden pathways that Fíli believed, as he had not in Rivendell, that she would be able to dance across water with his brother in her arms.


	9. Desperation

Dwarves loved deeply. The ties among siblings, parents, even cousins, were strong enough that Men often couldn’t tell a marriage bond from a sibling bond. The connection between a chosen pairing – two dwarves who _selected_ each other – was stronger still. Rarely, the two combined – siblings chose to marry, cousins decided to court – and though this raised some eyebrows, it also resulted in fierce, protective bonds unlike any other in Middle Earth. So much so that other Dwarves might be wary of it, whispering of _fading_ and _obsession._

That such strong emotion could be one-sided was unusual, but not impossible. Those who were rejected generally found solace in other family members or in their craft, if they didn’t fade.

Without a kingdom, Fíli had no craft, and he had no other siblings. Some desperate part of him longed for his mother, but Dís was back in Thorin’s Halls, keeping their people safe. There was only Thorin, and so he threw himself into a fishing boat and, struggling with the unfamiliar and oversized oars, rowed himself across the lake in the direction of Erebor. The constant movement, the pull on unfamiliar muscles in his back, cleared his head for the first time since Kíli had called for Tauriel in his fever. He concentrated on nothing except the repetitive pull of oars in the water, the shift in his hands, and the increasing chop of the lake’s surface as Smaug moved within the mountain. 

He couldn’t think of anything, or he would drown in fear for those he loved. How could the company – Thorin’s Company, _his_ company – hope to defeat a living dragon, thrashing in the depths of Erebor? What could he do - one foolish, childish dwarf - against such a beast? Would the she-elf get his One to safety, along with the Company under his care - the Company he had abandoned? Some leader the nephew of Thorin Oakenshield was proving to be.

He concentrated on the slap of the oars striking water, and the long stroke, and lift, and strike, and stroke-

He was in the middle of the lake when the doors of Erebor wrenched open, and a dragon of spun gold tore out and into the night. 

At first, Fíli thought the dragon _was_ gold, and he stopped and stared with a strange sort of detachment. “Thorin said you were red,” he muttered as one oar slipped from his hand and into the water with a splash. He cursed at the sound and reached over the side to fish for the lost oar, but then the sky split with the dragon’s roar and his ears rang in response. 

He didn’t know if it was a roar of fury, triumph, or pain. The dragon swept into the air with another shattering cry, the deep notes vibrating along Fíli’s nerves and jangling his bones beneath the skin. He grasped blindly at the oar, splashing cold lake water over his lap and into the tops of his boots as he stared at the monster his uncle thought to defeat with thirteen dwarves and a wizard. 

_They must have failed,_ he thought dazedly. _They must be dead._ He felt strangely as if he were floating. He felt nothing. He felt everything.

The golden apparition swooped low over the lake before suddenly corkscrewing up in an expanse of wings that could have sheltered the entire wooden town on the lake’s south edge. As the dragon twisted, something flew from his body. Fíli squinted into the dark, his eyes seeing what his mind couldn’t comprehend. The great drake’s body was shattering, falling off, flying through the air in streaks of shining gold. He thought numbly of Kíli’s coming of age, and a handful of Dwarven fireworks exploding above their little mountain home. Kíli had laughed in delight at the long-neglected craft, lifting his hands toward the sparkling explosions of color. Fíli had nearly kissed him then. _I should have,_ he thought. 

Molten metal slammed into the side of Fíli’s neck and along his jaw, and he screamed as the skin boiled. 

Smaug twisted and twirled through the air, his voice roaring now in triumph, flame bursting from his great, laughing mouth, but Fíli missed it all as more gold struck his shoulder, his arm, and one ear. Pain exploded where no cloth protected him, and he smelt the stink of burning hair and liquid metal as a dollop slid into his left eye. 

He threw himself from the boat and into the lake, desperate for relief.

His heavy clothes filled immediately with water, dragging him down. Fíli thrashed, blind and mindless with agony. His gloved fingers grabbed at his neck, peeling away cooling gold. Blisters burst around his left ear at the scrape of gloves. He nearly blacked out, and his shout of pain took in water instead of air.

Instinct made him kick to the surface, his fingers scrabbling desperately along the side of the boat. His hands found one oar, pulled it into the water with a painful strike to the side of his head that hadn’t been hit by melted gold. Sparks flew across his vision. Dimly he heard another roar, and screams, and the crackling of flame. _Kíli_ he thought as he tried again, grabbing the edge of the boat this time. _Kíli_ his heart beat as he used every ounce of power in his strong dwarf arms to pull himself into the boat without toppling it. Water splashed in after him, but the boat righted without filling. “Kíli,” he whispered as fire rose over Lake Town and glittered in his open right eye. 

“Kíli,” he prayed as he blackness rushed in and he was lost from the world.

 

The throbbing pain along the left side of his neck, jaw, ear, and eye woke him some indeterminate time later. He didn’t know how long he lay in the bottom of the boat, his cheek blessedly soaked in the water that accumulated there as he struggled back aboard, but it was still night. For a time he drifted, his mind blank save the constant throb of _pain pain pain_ in the rhythm of his heart. The sky was perhaps lighter – was it from fire? Or sunrise? – when he levered himself up enough to squint over the edge. The world seemed off-kilter, and he realized that his left eye was not open. He wondered if he _could_ open it. 

He hurt too much to try.

Fire licked the sky from the shattered remains of Lake-town. Fíli leaned his good cheek against the edge of the boat, too off-balance to sit up. There was something strange about the sight. Something his muddled mind couldn’t put together. He shoved against the bottom of the boat with his hands and lifted his head to see more of the lake, and the movement made him wretch. For long moments his body convulsed, coughing up water and bile. His wide mouth made the blisters on the left side of his face crack and bleed. Puss joined the mess in the bottom of his boat.

Fíli collapsed again, barely managing not to land in his own sick. The world dimmed, but did not completely disappear.

He dozed, if anything that involved so much agony could be called such.

Finally, finally, he woke properly, pulled himself to the edge again, and peered out. He saw boats, scattered here and there, which surprised him. Why would they be out in the middle of the night? His mind, sluggish with pain, shock, and cold, could make no sense of it. There were people in most of the boats. He could see torsos and heads, and hear them calling out to each other. 

He turned back to the town. What was so strange? What lay there, atop and within the crackling flames that did not belong? The sky was turning pink now, and slowly the town came into sharper focus in his watering eye.

The dragon’s body lay atop the waste, and did not burn. But neither did it move.

Smaug was dead. 

Fíli sobbed something that sounded like a laugh. Smaug was dead. He didn’t know how. Certainly through no actions on _his_ part. And some people were alive, at least. He hoped Kíli was alive. He thought he was. He fancied in his stupor that it would be impossible for Fíli to be lying here in a half flooded boat, in so much pain that he couldn’t move, if his One was gone.

“Dwarf!” 

The voice sounded strange. Lopsided and echoing. Fíli carefully lifted his head a little, curious. “What?” he croaked, but his throat was too raw to make any proper sound. 

“He’s here! Draw us in!” A splash of water and a gentle _thunk_ sounded from the other side of Fíli’s boat, but he did not turn his head to see. He was afraid he would be sick again, or the gray would return and steal his consciousness. He continued to stare at a dragon’s corpse atop a burning town.

His little boat barely swayed as someone leapt aboard, a hand touching the back of his neck. “You are breathing, Dwarf. Good for you." The voice was neutral, but Fíli felt surprised at that. This voice should have been cold. Who was it?

Golden hair fell across his vision. Fili was developing an irrational dislike of that color.

“Oh,” he murmured, “the elf prince.”

“Yes.” The voice sounded concerned now. “Why do you not respond? You’ve been sick. Are you in-” the voice cut off as strong, thin hands turned Fíli’s shoulder. The dwarf prince let out a hiss of pain, and his good eye watered. The elf dissolved into wavering color. “Oh,” the elf muttered. “You are injured indeed.” Efficient hands slid down Fíli’s back, under his legs. Fíli felt the cool water disappear and be replaced by air. “We must get him to shore,” he said to some unknown face in the lightening dark. “We must hurry. The fool's been burned by the falling gold.” The elf stepped from his boat into another. It felt like walking on water. “His own healer would be our best choice. He will surely know how to treat such burns.”

 _Oin is alive,_ Fíli’s mind supplied. _I told Oin to watch Kíli._

“Kí…” he whispered, and coughed, and the pain ripped through him again until he spasmed in the elf-prince’s arms. The elf murmured to him in Sindarin, his voice like music and honey.

The darkness threatened, and Fíli could not keep it at bay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing Legolas in _Desolation_ is difficult because he has to keep right on hating dwarves up until his epic love of Gimli. I'd hate to think he kept despising them because of some half-baked love triangle. I think it'd be more the fact that they, well, released a dragon after everyone told them it was a bad idea, along with the totally-logical arguments presented by his father that they're short, ugly, and annoying.
> 
> However, I also couldn't see him not helping after the destruction of Lake-town, so here you are. Legolas, annoyed at having to help a Dwarf.


	10. Fading

Dwarves sometimes did not survive the loss of their One. They didn’t die suddenly, nor were they likely to take their own lives. They simply faded, their bodies weakening and failing with grief. It was known as a sad death, but not a physically agonizing one.

When Fill woke, he knew he was not fading. There was simply too much pain.

“There you are, laddie. We were starting to think you planned to sleep forever.”

Fíli shifted. He was on blankets, on good solid earth and no longer in his little boat. With great concentration, he opened his eyes – or tried. Only the right eye opened. The world was too bright, and his eye watered until a familiar head blocked some of it, topped by a soft and ridiculous hat. 

“Don’t try to move,” Bofur’s voice warned, though he was only a hazy image so far. “Oin’s covered you in salve and bandages, and half drowned you in pain tonics. If you try to move about, you’ll most likely just do yourself more damage. You’ve quite a mess of burns, my prince.”

Fíli’s lips moved, but his poor throat only scraped. “Don’t talk either.” Bofur was slowly coming into focus now, the shapes sharper, the colors darker. “Oin’s right here. He’ll be checking you over.” 

Hands started to touch him, rough and familiar. They traced the edge of what must have been bandages, and something cool and slick was spread here and there. “Before you start panicking,” Bofur continued to talk, his voice carefully chatty, “your brother’s here as well.” Hands pressed to Fíli’s chest at this, anticipating his thrashing at the news. “He’s been sitting here beside you for hours and will be furious you woke properly the one time we managed to get him out for a moment. I’m glad though. I’d like your voice working and your color a bit better when he gets here.”

“I’m going to lift you so you can drink some water,” came Oin’s voice. Strong, practiced hands slipped under Fíli’s shoulders and lifted him against something. It took a moment for Fíli to realize it was Bofur’s chest and shoulder. Oin tipped his head carefully and helped him sip water. The water tasted oily, and Fíli suspected there were more herbs there to keep him from feeling the pain on his left side. 

Fíli felt ridiculously proud when he didn’t cough. “Where?”

“On the shores of the lake,” Bofur answered from near Fíli’s temple. They poured more water in his mouth and he swallowed carefully. “Prince Legolas managed to get a fair number of people out on the lake in boats and others on the shores. Smaug destroyed the town, and we don’t know how many people died, but your warning saved several hundred lives.” A gentle hand rested on his belly. “You did well, lad.” 

“Smaug. Gold.”

“Aye. No one knows the answer to that. The dragon came out covered in molten gold. You weren’t the only one burned, but you had about the worst of it. Most of the Men leapt in the water and avoided it.” 

Fíli frowned. “Dragon’s dead.”

A soft laugh. “That’d be Bard’s work, and that great black arrow. He shot the beast in the breast, where his grandfather damaged its hide, and Smaug went down. Luckily, he hit the town and not the lake.” There was a rustle and a cry, then, “Ah, here we are then. Here’s your brother.”

And then there was Kíli’s beloved face, the cheeks pink, the eyes no longer fever-bright. It would be a lie to say he was fully recovered. The skin around his mouth was pale, and streaks of soot and ash spread across his cheeks, but oh. He was the most beautiful sight Fíli had ever seen.

“Kíli,” he croaked, and smiled.

Kíli stared at him, his eyes red-rimmed and damp. “Fíli,” he whispered, then growled, “you _fucking bastard._ ”

Fíli let out a huff of air, something that would have been a laugh if his throat was just a bit less tight and dry. “That’s…insult…Mother,” he croaked. He’d never heard his brother use those particular words before.

Kíli’s strong fingers wrapped around Fíli’s hands and lifted them to his lips before the dark head bowed over them. “You left me behind,” he whispered. Fíli couldn’t deny this, and he couldn’t explain. His hand tightened around his little brother’s trembling palm. “You’re alive.”

“So are you.” Fíli’s eye slid closed. He felt the bandage over the other eye, now. He knew some of his burns were exposed, to release heat, but Oin had bandaged his eye and ear. He didn’t want to know what he looked like. “She took care of you.”

“Tauriel?” Fíli grimaced at the name, but stayed in the safe darkness behind his eyelids. “Yes. She carried me here while I slept, unaware that you were rowing across the lake in a boat too big for you, trying to be killed by a dragon.” His voice was a growl.

“Not her fault. Told her to.” Fíli didn’t know why he was defending her. He took a slow breath. He felt very tired.

“Open your eyes and look at me!” Kíli snapped suddenly. Fíli’s eye flew open in surprise. “You don’t get to avoid looking at me when I’m this angry at you!”

“Kíli . . .” Fíli’s brother glared at him over their joined hands, and when he spoke his lips brushed over Fíli’s knuckles. It was soft, and so much more pleasant than the numbness underlined with burning discomfort along the left side of his face. 

“Tauriel told me-” Kíli stopped, gave his head a little shake. Fíli smiled. Kíli always looked like a puppy when he did that. “She gave me-” 

Fíli’s eyes were drifting shut again. He was so _tired._

“Now’s not the time lad,” Bofur’s voice fluttered around him. “Let him rest some more. Oin says next time he’s awake we can try having him up and about a bit. Let him rest, and get some yourself.” 

Fíli could see the mutinous line of Kíli’s mouth in his mind’s eye, but his little brother gave in. “Go ahead and sleep,” he ordered, his voice rough. “You’re going to need your rest by the time I’m ready to _really_ yell at you.”

This time, Fíli floated into the black with a swell of gentle affection.

 

He was more aware when next he woke, which meant that he felt the steady burning on his left side more acutely. Kíli was there this time, along with his she-elf, which probably explained why Fíli didn’t feel even worse than he did. They were talking quietly, but he had trouble making out the words. They were seated on his left, and the sound was muffled by bandages. Her thin hand rested on his brother’s shoulder, which shook lightly. 

“Kíli,” he murmured, reaching out, but it was not his place to comfort Kíli, not anymore. He let the hand fall back to his chest.

“Fíli! You’re awake!” Kíli spun back toward him with rather less grace than normal, given that he was sitting on the ground. He crawled to Fíli’s side as he called, “Oin! Oin!”

“I will fetch him,” Kíli’s elf said. She smiled reassuringly at Fíli. “You are already healing well, Master Fíli,” she assured him.

“Of course he is,” Kíli scoffed, but his voice sounded thick and rough. “He’s had dwarven and elven medicine spread all over him and poured down his gullet. He’ll get well just to avoid smelling any more like flowers and herbs.”

Tauriel smiled and laughed softly before rising to her feet and moving quickly away. 

Fíli turned his head enough to take in his surroundings. He was lying on a blanket on the grass beside the lake, surrounded by moving people. There were others spread out similarly, and he supposed this must be something of a camp for those who needed medical attention. Two forms nearby were completely covered. He turned away from those. 

Kíli stared at him, but said nothing. He only breathed, and Fíli felt his own breath hitch, and then smooth out, until they were breathing together. He couldn’t read the look on his brother’s face. Kíli looked almost well again, his color warm, his hair wild. His face was clean, but he could see ash in his brother’s hair. He reached up to brush a bit away. Kíli tilted his head into the touch as Fíli realized it would do little good. Ash floated in the air like snow. 

Oin arrived in moments, fussing over Fíli and wondering at the power of elven medicine once again. He and Tauriel spoke over the injured dwarf, discussing herbs and bandaging and remedies, mentioning scarring and the dangers of infection. Fíli let the sound wash over him in a fluctuating wave. Bofur elbowed in at one point to give him cold tea, thick with honey. The toymaker lifted him again against his own chest – “Sorry lad, no chairs or beds out here.” When the cup wavered in Fíli’s hands, Kíli’s wrapped around them and steadied his grip. Fíli couldn’t look at him, and stared instead into the too-large cup. 

He felt better after the tea, and Bofur gingerly moved away to let him sit on his own. The soft line of the toymaker’s body didn’t disappear entirely, though – he could feel the warmth on his right side, ready should Fíli show signs of listing one way or another. He did feel off-balance. 

“What’s happening at the mountain?” Fíli finally asked, directing the question to the air in front of him rather than looking at any particular dwarf.

There was silence a moment, something passing among the other three dwarves. “We’re not sure,” Kíli finally said. 

“Except that Thorin’s alive in there. And the Men say they’ve seen at least three others and a Hobbit, looking over the battlements,” Bofur offered.

Fíli made a little yelping noise. “Alive? Thorin?!”

“Aye. Alive and well enough, it seems. The Men have been arguing with him. We thought to go to the foot of the mountain when you woke, and ask for entry. It’s not . . .” Bofur frowned. “The Men were angry enough just after it happened, but it’s getting worse, and they’re not telling us anything. Now elves have been sighted, led by Thranduil. His son has gone to join him.” 

Fíli shifted. “Thorin won’t care for that.”

“No. I don’t know what they’ve been saying, but it’s not gone well. Frankly, lad, if we can move you, it’s best we do. I’d rather inside the mountain with our kin than trapped out here with angry Men. Bard for one knows that you’re Thorin’s heir, and I don’t like how he’s eyed you when he came to ask if you needed anything he could offer.”

Kíli made a low growling noise at that. The elf shifted beside him and he settled. Fíli forced himself to look up, over Kíli’s head, at the mountain. “I can walk.”

Oin disagreed, but Fíli was unmoved. “I _have_ to walk. If Bard or Thranduil is at odds with Uncle, we can’t allow them to use me or Kíli to force a bargain.”

Kili frowned. “Bard helped us. He wouldn’t use us now.” He bit his lip. “Would he?”

Fili picked at the borrowed pants he’d picked up in Lake-town. He was glad that he hadn’t awakened in some Man’s shirt, bare-legged and barefoot. “He’s not a bad man, but they’re in a desperate situation now, because of a dragon we awakened. Frankly, he’d be a fool not to use any advantage he has, and I don’t think he’s a fool.” Fili’s hand curled into a fist against his knee. “A wounded heir would be too tempting for anyone who needs to bargain. We must get into the mountain.”

“Even with elvish medicine, you’re in no condition to walk around or cross the lake,” Oin argued crossly. “You’ve not seen your face, boy. Your body needs to concentrate on healing.”

“Tauriel could ca-” Kíli began, but Fíli cut him off with a growl.

“I will _walk_. There’s nothing wrong with my legs!” He felt an immediate stab of guilt when he sensed more than saw his brother’s dark head lower at his tone.

“It will be night soon.” The line of Kili’s shoulders relaxed at the sound of his she-elf’s voice. Fíli gritted his teeth and immediately regretted it when pain spiked down his neck. “Though the camp is too new and tensions too high to truly settle, it will nevertheless be more quiet then. My people will not arrive until morning. Stay and rest. See if you can eat and drink. Then you may go by cover of night.” 

A cold, angry part of Fíli, this new part of him that he didn’t know, wanted to send her away, wanted to leave _right now_ only because she had suggested he stay. But he didn’t. He nodded. “You’re right. Bring me something and I’ll do my best to eat it.” He drew his legs up and shifted to sit more comfortably. 

Tauriel nodded and rose. She returned in moments, bearing a mug instead of a bowl. She left it with him and, when she stood to leave, Bofur and Oin followed her as if by some prearranged agreement.

Fíli was alone with Kíli, or alone as they could be, out in the open in a Man’s camp.

He concentrated very hard on his mug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one chapter to go!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, commenting, and leaving kudos. It's truly made writing this a fun experience and woken up my urge to write just for _fun_ in a way I've been missing for the last couple of years.


	11. Love

Men, Elves, and even Hobbits viewed Dwarves as a stoic race. They were known for their strength, stubbornness, and greed. They were not known for passion or love. Yet Dwarves felt love as no other race, not even the immortal Elves: all that strength transformed into a fierce protectiveness, the stubbornness into utter loyalty, and the greed to a uniquely dwarven possessiveness.

Fíli loved in this all-encompassing, dwarven fashion. 

He could not look at his brother.

The silence between them grew long and uncomfortable, as it had never been before. Fíli sipped carefully at the broth, trying not to move his jaw too much. He suspected he should be in much more pain than he was, and also supposed he had Tauriel to thank for his improved state. He did not feel as grateful as he should.

Kíli’s sigh finally broke the uneasy quiet. “If you’ll drink all of that, I’ll let you keep staring at the ground and refusing to look at me,” he said. The words were light, but his voice wasn’t. Fíli heard none of his usual humor. The elder brother lifted his eyes, almost-but-not-quite looking at Kíli, who said, “Don’t deny it. I know you’re avoiding me deliberately.” A beat. “If . . . maybe I understand. Maybe it’s better you’re not looking anyway. I’m not sure I would get it out if you were.”

Fíli stared down into the brown depths of his broth. It tasted of squirrel. Fíli wondered if Kíli had helped with the hunt before immediately dismissing the idea. Even angry, Kíli wouldn’t have left an injured Fíli to go hunting. Besides, Kíli knew he hated squirrel.

“You stood up to Thorin for me. When he left me behind,” Kíli began. His voice sounded deeper than usual, and so very serious, and hesitant. Kíli never hesitated. He paused a moment, for a response that didn’t come. “Then you left me anyway, after Oin drugged me to sleep and I couldn’t stop you.” He took a sharp little breath. “That was beneath you, brother.”

Fíli curled into himself a bit. 

“Are you going to _say_ anything? About why you did it? How you ended up on the lake alone, nearly getting yourself killed?”

Fíli opened his mouth, closed it, tightened his hands. Finally, he gave up, and gave his head a quick shake. Someone had braided his hair back – Kíli, who else? – and he regretted not being able to hide behind it. It had been a favorite tactic in those first months after their father died: a golden wall against the world.

“Fine. That’s. Fine. I’ll just.” Kíli huffed. “Bofur and Oin didn’t have any idea what got into you. But Tauriel says-” Fíli winced again at the name. Kíli sucked in air noisily. “Tauriel says you’re in love with me.”

Fíli’s world ground to a halt. His heart thumped, and his head whirled, the burning intensifying in his left eye. He slowly lifted his head, feeling his cowardice in how very long it took him.

Kíli was looking straight at him, his expression unreadable.

“Are you?” he asked. “Are you in love with me, Fíli?”

Fíli felt his face twist into a grimace. “You shouldn’t ask me that.” He meant to sound angry, but it came out pleading.

“Why?” Kíli scowled at him. “Because it’s not true? Or because it is?”

“Because it doesn’t matter!” Fíli’s voice rose, then immediately fell again when his throat burned. He lowered his gaze. “It doesn’t matter.”

Kíli’s hands curled into fists. He wasn’t wearing his leather bracers. He looked somehow diminished without them. “In what way,” he ground out, “could it possibly _not matter_?”

“Because she walks in starlight.” Fíli’s voice emerged as a whisper. “Because I am only stone and blood.”

Those clever archer’s hands unclenched. One reached out, barely touching Fíli’s knee. “Why did you never tell me?” Kíli murmured, his voice so gentle that he already sounded like he belonged with elves rather than rough and tumble dwarves.

Fíli sniggered. The sound burst out of him. There was no humor in it. “I thought you _knew_ ,” he coughed into the mirthless laughter. “I thought _everyone_ knew.” _Because I’m an arrogant child playing at great quests._ He tilted his head back, squinting into the smoke-filled sky, watching the fluttering ash. 

“How long?”

Fíli had never known his brother to be cruel before. A brat, of course, but never cruel. His throat felt tight and closed off. “Decades.”

“Decades.” There was something in Kíli’s voice that Fíli didn’t understand. 

“Yes.” 

He heard Kíli shift beside him, but Fíli didn’t turn his head. The sun was slipping into the west. He wondered how long he’d slept. He hadn’t thought to ask. Had it been days?

“How long have you been carrying those beads around?” 

Tears rose and slide down the right side of his face. There were no tears on the left side. “Too long.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I made them in Erid Luin. I meant to carve them on the road. I got the ties from the elves in Rivendell. It’s how they keep their braids in place.” The words were flat. Fíli was too furious and too hurt for anything else. If he didn’t keep tight control, he would strike his brother across the face. 

He’d never felt an urge to hurt Kíli before.

“You’re horrible at carving.”

A choked chuckle released some of the fury in Fíli’s belly and fingertips. “I’ve noticed.” He felt a measure of relief that he didn’t really _want_ to hit Kíli, even now. 

“How many did you ruin and throw away?”

“I lost count in Erid Luin. Seven on the road.”

“You should have told me to carve them.” Fíli’s heart beat once. Twice. “We have always done such things together, brother.” Kíli had never sounded so sad before. Fíli wanted desperately to comfort him, but he couldn’t move.

Fíli slowly lowered his chin, though he still couldn’t look at Kíli. He held a hand out and watched as a tuft of ash floated onto his palm. It seemed too far away. Everything looked either too far away or too close. “I know you didn’t forge the blanks, but I hope you’ll use them anyway. We’re not in a position for you to make them yourself, and she probably wouldn’t know the difference.”

“I will not carve the beads you forged for Tauriel.”

Fíli sighed. “Very well. You don’t have to use them. I suppose they wouldn’t suit her.” He swallowed, strangely hurt that his beads weren’t even good enough for his One to give another. It stung his pride in some ridiculous way, because he knew the blanks were perfectly serviceable. The wind whipped the ash away again. His eyes tracked it, not realizing it would flicker across Kíli’s cheek. 

He met Kíli’s eyes.

“I carved them for me,” his brother said. A tremulous smile flickered across his mouth. “They’re not my best work, brother. My hands were shaking. But they’re still an improvement over yours.”

Fíli wavered. “You should not tease me,” he said hoarsely.

Kíli’s smile strengthened and his eyes shone. “I should tease you. I should tease you every day for the rest of our lives. You’ve earned it, by not speaking before now. And you need it, when you take yourself too seriously.” He reached out, stroked hard fingertips along Fíli’s jaw, so carefully, on the right side. “But I’m not teasing you now.” The hand ghosted away to cup Fíli’s. The familiar leather bag was in his lap. Kíli tilted the contents into Fíli’s palm. Four completed beads and four of the elven ties. The designs were simple, and most certainly not Kíli’s finest work, as stated. The cuts were shaky and uneven, and hadn’t been properly treated to darken the designs, but they were there. Fíli’s symbol. Kíli’s. The rune for _brother._ The rune for _One._

Fíli stared at them.

“You are not at your best and brightest today,” Kíli told him with a watery shadow of his usual humor. 

“Tauriel-”

Kíli laughed. “Fíli, I’ve known Tauriel for a handful of days! She’s strong, clever, and intriguing. She shoots a bow like _nothing_ I’ve ever seen! She stops _breathing_ when she aims, she goes so still, like a statue. She’s beautiful in . . .” He shrugged. “A different way. Not a way I ever expected. She was a voice in the dark when I couldn’t see anyone familiar. She saved my life more than once.” His voice softened. “She saved _your_ life.” He traced a finger along the bead with Fíli’s sigil upon it. “I was charmed by her. I _am_ charmed by her. But I don’t _love_ her. I might have, someday, if we got to know each other. We do suit each other in some ways. It's hard to explain." The muscles in Fíli's hand tensed and tightened. His brother stroked his thumb over Fíli's palm. "I could even have been happy, though Thorin wouldn’t have given me a moment’s peace.” He rolled his eyes a bit at the thought. “But, Fíli.” 

He took a careful breath. “If you had spoken to me two weeks ago, or two years, or two decades, I would never have noticed her existence.” He closed his hand around Fíli’s, curling the thicker fingers around the delicate gifts. “Only you would be so certain of yourself that you never bothered to make sure the dwarf you loved knew about it. You’ve always been an arrogant ass.”

“I am not an arrogant ass,” Fíli argued, automatically.

“Yes, you are. Everybody knows it. The way you stand around, the way you talk. Even the way you _walk. Especially_ the way you walk. You _personify_ arrogant ass. Do you know how many bar brawls we’ve been in just because you sit around being you, smirking at the world like you own it?” Kíli tilted his head, considering. “Well, occasionally you slip into ‘overwhelming mothering ass,’ but I’m always the unfortunate recipient of that version of your personality. Lucky as I am.” 

He scooted closer, leaning forward until his forehead pressed, with infinite gentleness, against Fíli’s. He carefully avoided the bandage wrapped along the left side. “Promise me that next time you think of something really, _really_ important, like that you’re madly in love with me, you’ll come out and say it instead of attempting to radiate it from your less than charming personality.”

Fíli felt himself smiling, though it felt awkward and tentative on his face. He was beginning to worry about that blow to the head from the oar. “I’ll do my best,” he promised.

Kíli hummed in his lovably off-key way. “For example. I’ve heard there’s something you’ve been thinking about for a few decades, that you thought I knew about, but I didn’t. Something that you still haven’t gotten around to saying.” He tapped their foreheads with the lightest of touches. “You could start with that.”

“I love you.” The words burst out, sang in the air, fluttered. 

Kíli sighed approval. “About time. Mahal, you’re slow.”

“I’m slow?! You’re the one who didn’t know.”

Kíli shrugged. “You’re the clever one. I’m the pretty one. And an idiot. Ask anybody.”

“You’re my pretty idiot?” Fíli said, though Kíli was no more an idiot than Fíli was arrogant. It sounded a bit like a question, and not a statement, but Fíli felt buoyant, and a little ridiculous, and generally content. 

“Yes. And you’re my arrogant mothering ass.” Kíli traced a thumb over Fíli’s bottom lip. “I want to kiss you,” he murmured, “but I’m afraid it will hurt.”

Fíli’s laugh was sudden and loud, more Kíli’s free bark than his own sly chuckle. It sounded like he had taken a piece of his brother inside himself. “Nothing you do would hurt me right now,” he said, and it was true. 

So Kíli kissed him.

 _Now,_ Fíli’s heart sighed. _Always._

Fíli whispered the words against Kíli’s mouth, and swallowed Kíli’s delighted laughter.

One brush, two, before he lost count; shared breath and more low murmurs that bubbled up from Fíli’s tired chest. They didn’t know what they were doing, and they were surrounded by Men who were probably gaping at them in that unattractive way of theirs. And maybe it hurt a _bit,_ the pull on the burnt side of his face, but this hurt was so different from what had strangled his heart and twisted his chest for the last days that he welcomed it. 

Fíli would not trade that awkward, perfect, public, beautiful moment for any other in his life.

Kíli straightened slowly, taking a moment to peer at the sky. His cheeks were flushed and his lips just the slightest bit damp. He looked both older and younger than ever before. “It’s getting darker,” he announced with one of his wild grins. “You’d better get a move on. This hair’s not gonna braid itself.” He flipped a comb into Fíli’s hands, grinning at the startled laugh and flashing golden dimples he earned for his trouble.

 

Kíli’s courting braids were sleek and lovely, as Fíli had always known they would be. Considering the fact that he was working with only one eye and a constant thrum of pain, Fíli was quite pleased with himself.

And the beads stayed in . . .

. . . _almost_ to the gates of Erebor.

Oin and Bofur were quite good-natured about it when Fíli insisted on fixing them before they rejoined their kin inside the Lonely Mountain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for staying with me until the end!
> 
> Or...mostly the end. I am working on a companion story from Kili's point of view, beginning in Mirkwood, which I merrily (and purposefully) skipped in Fili's story. It looks as if it will carry a bit beyond the end of this one as well, because there are repercussions of injuries like Fili's on the brink of war, nor can someone undergo a complete restructuring of his world view without some fallout.
> 
> I also need to write some fluff, because fluff is my THING, so....some little side shots are likely to show up as well. :)

**Author's Note:**

> [Blanket Permission Statement](http://dragonsquill.tumblr.com/permission)


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